My father's stories fell upon us
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Filled us with his light
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Gospels, fertile minds
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Taking root, taking root
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His pocket change would jingle
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Sacramental bells
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Heads tucked low
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Sneaking peaks, sneaking peaks
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And the rain comes down
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It's dark, and the browns
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Begin to bite
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Here you will always be
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Behind me, and you will not go away
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There he sleeps, an untamed land
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Dark corners yet discovered
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His heart yet to be
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Trod upon, trod upon
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I can't bare to hear his breathing
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Simply knowing what's to come
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I can't bare to hear your breathing
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Knowing what's to come
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Follower 2
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Cowboy Junkies |