| The flies have quit their buzzing
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| Even Bear has stopped his barking
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| They all sense something brewing
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| Up the James and headed this way
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| Bobby sips his morning coffee
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| Says 'Have you finished with the funnies?
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| Looks like a storm’s coming honey
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| Guess we’ll have to stay in bed today'
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| I’ve heard that into every life
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| A little of it must fall
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| If there’s any truth to the saying
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| Lord, let it be a southern rain
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| Marie was born in Macon, Georgia
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| She met a west coast lawyer
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| He plucked that sweet magnolia
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| And carried her to the hills of West L. A
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| She says 'I never thought I’d tire of a dollar
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| But this life has grown so hollow
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| Every night there’s lipstick on his collar
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| And every morning I wash it away'
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| She heard that into every life
|
| A little of it must fall
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| So she spends her evenings praying
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| For a little of that southern rain
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| Cars alive on city streets
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| Of sparkling black water
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| Like waves beneath my window
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| Never break just roll away
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| Tonight, this rain will be my lullaby
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| These cars, my dreams
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| To carry me home to stay
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| The wipers beat a rhythm
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| Truck spray obscures my vision
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| But I’m closing in on my destination
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| Two more hours and I’ll be at your door
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| And it will never cease to amaze me
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| How a little rain can drive folks crazy
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| When I’d trade all my blue skies gladly
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| For your blue eyes, crooked smile
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| And a steady downpour
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| I’ve heard that into every life
|
| A little of it must fall
|
| But you’ll never catch me complaining
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| About too much of that southern rain |