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Take my body to Seven-Mile Island. |
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Lay my head down where Indians sleep. |
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Take your shoes off and walk across the water. |
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It's been so long so I heard a man speak. |
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Watch the spillways when the water starts rising. |
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Take your hat off when the sun goes down. |
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Keep your eyes on that concrete tower. |
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Maybe one day it will crumble to the ground. |
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Mary's crying 'cause she can't hold water |
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And her clothes don't fit her right. |
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She used to say that she wanted a daughter, |
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Now she only wants a Saturday night. |
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There were days when that dusty cave was empty, |
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Back before this city made a claim |
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On that hotel for wanderers and strangers, |
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Back before you could live off of your name. |
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We all live in an Airstream trailer |
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About three-hundred yards up the lake. |
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Call the doctor, Mary's going into labor |
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And you can't raise a baby on shake. |
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So take my body to Seven-Mile Island |
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Lay some stones down on top of my grave. |
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Tell my lady I just couldn't bear to see her |
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Tell my daughter I just couldn't be saved. |