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It's knowin' that your door is always open |
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And your path is free to walk |
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That makes me tend to leave my sleeping bag |
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Rolled up and stashed behind your couch. |
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And it's knowing I'm not shackled by forgotten words and bonds |
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And the ink stains that have dried upon some line |
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That keeps you in the backroads by the rivers of my memory |
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That keeps you ever gentle on my mind. |
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It's not clinging to the rocks and ivy planted |
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On their columns now that binds me. |
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Or something that somebody said because they thought |
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We fit together walkin'. |
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It's just knowing that the world will not be cursing or forgiving |
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When I walk along some railroad track and find |
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That you're moving on the backroads by the rivers of my memory |
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And for hours you're just gentle on my mind. |
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Though the wheat fields and the clothes lines |
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And the junkyards and the highways come between us. |
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And some other woman crying to her mother |
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'Cause she turned and I was gone. |
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I still might run in silence, tears of joy might stain my face |
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And a summer sun might burn me till I'm blind. |
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But not to where I cannot see you walkin' on the backroads |
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By the rivers flowing gentle on my mind. |
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I dip my cup of soup, back from the gurgling cracklin' cauldron |
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In some train yard |
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My beard a roughning coal pile and a dirty hat |
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Pulled low across my face. |
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Through cupped hands 'round a tin can |
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I pretend I hold you to my breast and find |
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That you're waving from the backroads by the rivers of my memory |
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Ever smilin' ever gentle on my mind. |