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High on a mountain in western Montana |
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A silhouette moves 'cross a cinnamon sky |
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Riding alone on a horse he called Music |
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With a song on his lips and a tear in his eye |
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He dreams of a time and a lady that loved him |
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And how he would sing her sweet lullabies |
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But we don't ever ask him |
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And he never talks about her |
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I Guess it is just better that we all let it slide |
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And he sang "ooh" to the ladies |
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And ooh he made some sigh |
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Now he rides away on a horse he called Music |
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With a pain in his heart and a tear in his eye |
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Now He rode the Music from Boston to Bozeman |
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For not too much money |
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But way to much ride |
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But those were the days |
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When a horse he called Music |
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Could jump through the moon |
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And fly across the sky |
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Now all that's left is a old time worn cowboy |
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With only his dreams after the days long gone by |
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And trailing behind is a horse with no rider |
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A horse he calls memories that she used to ride |
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But he sang "ooh" to the ladies |
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And ooh he damn near made |
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Some fall right down and die |
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And he rides away on a horse he called Music |
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With a pain in his heart and a tear in his eye |
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High on a mountain in western Montana |
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Two crosses cut through a cinnamon sky |
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Marking the place where a horse he called Music |
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Lays with a cowboy there by he side |