I've been here a month or more, stuck in this old city.
The people that have to call it home they're the ones I pity,
Lord, I'm homesick, and the blues are the only songs I ever seem to pick.
I get out and walk the street 'til I get blisters on my feet,
(What do you think about it, son?)
I'm all right 'til late at night I'm sitting by my window,
Counting sheep but I couldn't sleep for listening to that train blow
I begin to pine when
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