There's a bullet in my pocket burning a hole
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You're so far from your weapon
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And the place you were born
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There's a bullet in my pocket burning a hole
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You're so far from your weapon
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And you want to go home
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I try to give you whiskey
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But it never do work
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Suddenly, you're beggin me
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To do so much worse
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I knew it from the get go
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The bullet was cursed
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Ever since I had you
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Every little thing hurts
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You wanna get up? Let go?
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I say no
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You dream of seeing fire in them hills
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But you better wipe that smile from your lips
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Which of us will be the one to go?
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He who hits the road's the one who lives
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So Far From Your Weapon
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| The Dead Weather |