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On cold November days don't like to stray too far |
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Or even leave my bed, or put down my guitar |
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Or leave my master bedroom with it's view |
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Overlooking the mountains |
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On dark December days, I think of all my friends |
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from Washington to Maine, New York to Sweden |
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And how we've all grown closer with years |
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Or how we've grown apart |
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Icicles fall from my roof, burning stove, piles of firewood |
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Will we meet again in Cold Brook Park |
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In Cold Brook Park |
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On January days I walk into the town |
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Once or twice a day some peace out here I've found |
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My clothes are wet with rain and mountain mist |
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Oh how I love the quiet |
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When February rains I've gone another year |
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Chasing perfect poems and trying them in your ear |
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But I'm losing the will to chase them anymore |
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Across those lonesome oceans |
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Running deer stops at a fence, sniffing at the flowering iris |
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Will we meet again in Cold Brook Park |
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Cold Brook Park |
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Ghosts inhabit my mountain home |
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They don't frighten me, I sleep here alone |
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I shut out my friends, shut off the phone and |
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Late in the night I hear the echoes of young love |
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I walk downtown, saw her again |
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There on the corner, laughing with friends |
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The cool mountain air pinched her pink skin |
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And I walked on, aching with memories of young love |
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Youth walk by hand in hand |
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And there on the porch sits an old man |
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His back is tight, his splintered hands |
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And plain in his eyes, he envies the beauty of young love |