| I slept through the Nineteen Sixties
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| I heard Dory Previn say
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| But me I caught me the great white bird
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| To the shores of African
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| Where I lost my adolescent heart
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| To the sound of a talking drum
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| Yeah, east of Woodstock, west of Viet Nam
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| And on the roads outside Oshogbo
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| Lord I fell down on my knees
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| There were female spirits in old mud huts
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| Iron bells ringing up in the trees
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| And an eighty year old white priest
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| She made Juju all night long
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| Yeah, east of Woodstock, west of Viet Nam
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| Raise high the roof beams carpenter boy
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| Yeah, we’re coming through the rye
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| In the cinema I saw the man on the moon
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| I laughed so hard I cried
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| It was somewhere in those rainy seasons
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| That I learned to carve my song
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| Yeah, east of Woodstock, west of Viet Nam
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| Oh Africa, Mother Africa
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| You lay heavy on my breast
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| You old cradle of civilization
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| Heart of darkness blood and death
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| Though we had to play you running scared
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| When the crocodile ate the sun
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| Yeah, east of Woodstock, west of Viet Nam
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| Well, I think it’s going to rain tonight
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| I can smell it coming off the sea
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| As I sit here reading old Graham Greene
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| I taste Africa on every page
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| Then I close my eyes and see those red clay roads
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| And it’s sundown and boys I’m gone
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| Yeah, east of Woodstock, west of Viet Nam
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| Raise high the roof beams carpenter boy
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| Yeah, we’re coming through the rye
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| It was a movable feast of war and memory
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| A dark old lullaby
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| It was the smoke of a thousand camp fires
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| It was the wrong end of a gun
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| Yeah, east of Woodstock, west of Viet Nam
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| Yeah, east of Woodstock, west of Viet Nam |