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I was eight years old and running with a dime in my hand |
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Into the bus stop to pick up a paper for my old man |
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I'd sit on his lap in that Buick and steer as we drove through town |
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He'd tousle my hair and say, "Take a good look around |
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This is your hometown" |
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This is your hometown |
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This is your hometown |
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This is your hometown |
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In '65, tension was running high at my high school |
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There was a lot of fights between the black and white, there was nothing you could do |
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Two cars at a light on a Saturday night, in the backseat, there was a gun |
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Words were passed, in a shotgun blast, troubled times had come |
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To my hometown |
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My hometown |
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My hometown |
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My hometown |
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Now, Main Street's whitewashed windows and vacant stores |
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Seems like there ain't nobody wants to come down here no more |
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They're closing down the textile mill across the railroad tracks |
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Foreman says, "These jobs are going, boys, and they ain't coming back |
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To your hometown" |
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Your hometown |
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Your hometown |
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Your hometown |
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Last night, me and Kate, we laid in bed, talking about getting out |
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Packing up our bags, maybe heading south |
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I'm thirty-five, we got a boy of our own now |
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Last night, I sat him up behind the wheel and said, "Son, take a good look around |
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This is your hometown" |
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This is your hometown |