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This is what we call a ghost town Where the saloon door sets the metronome
With weather worn boots striking On the down beat
Loud enough for the whole town to hear So the bartender asks for a smile not a story
And gets nothing but questions About how long he’s been here
Since it started raining, he says And there’s been no drought in memory
But there’s still hope for sun To paint the beds by morning
Where your lover’s skin is a symbol Of the night before
And looks like a train track But ain’t no train run here for a long time honey
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