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you took the baby to your mother's end of June |
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& kissed her for the last time |
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on the bed in your old room |
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then up to Northfield in the Fairmont just you two |
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you always drove the getaway |
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so you wouldn't have to shoot |
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& after a couple jobs like clockwork |
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where not one of you had slipped |
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you were on your way back to Wisconsin |
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hit a deer & flipped |
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came to on the pavement |
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bleeding hard from the crash |
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calling to no one |
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he was as gone as the cash |
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but there was the Ford flipped under an overpass |
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the baby seat strapped in the back |
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the windshield smashed & red streaked |
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as an exploded dye pack |
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& so you crawled in & you closed the door |
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& laid on what was now the floor |
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& swore that you would figure out the rest |
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when it was morning |