| No regrets Coyote
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| We just come from such different sets of circumstance
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| I’m up all night in the studios
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| And you’re up early on your ranch
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| You’ll be brushing out a brood mare’s tail
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| While the sun is ascending
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| And I’ll just be getting home with my reel to reel
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| There’s no comprehending
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| Just how close to the bone and the skin and the eyes
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| And the lips you can get
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| And still feel so alone
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| And still feel related
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| Like stations in some relay
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| You’re not a hit and run driver no no
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| Racing away
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| You just picked up a hitcher
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| A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway
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| We saw a farmhouse burning down
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| In the middle of nowhere
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| In the middle of the night
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| And we rolled right past that tragedy
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| Till we pulled into some road house lights
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| Where a local band was playing
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| Locals were up kicking and shaking on the floor
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| And the next thing I know
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| That coyote’s at my door
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| He pins me in a corner and he won’t take no
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| He drags me out on the dance floor
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| And we’re dancing close and slow
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| Now he’s got a woman at home
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| He’s got another woman down the hall
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| He seems to want me anyway
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| Why’d you have to get so drunk
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| And lead me on that way?
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| You just picked up a hitcher
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| A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway
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| I looked a coyote right in the face
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| On the road to Baljennie near my old home town
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| He went running through the whisker wheat
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| Chasing some prize down
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| And a hawk was playing with him
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| Coyote was jumping straight up and making passes
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| He had those same eyes just like yours
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| Under your dark glasses
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| Privately probing the public rooms
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| And peeking through keyholes in numbered doors
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| Where the players lick their wounds
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| And take their temporary lovers
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| And their pills and powders to get them through this passion play
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| No regrets Coyote
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| I just get off up aways
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| You just picked up a hitcher
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| A prisoner of the white lines on the freeway
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| Coyote’s in the coffee shop
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| He’s staring a hole in his scrambled eggs
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| He picks up my scent on his fingers
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| While he’s watching the waitresses' legs
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| He’s too far from the Bay of Funday
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| From appaloosas and eagles and tides
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| And the air conditioned cubicles
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| And the carbon ribbon rides
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| Are spelling it out so clear
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| Either he’s going to have to stand and fight
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| Or take off out of here
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| I tried to run away myself
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| To run away and wrestle with my ego
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| And with this flame
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| You put here in this Eskimo
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| In this hitcher
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| In this prisoner
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| Of the fine white lines
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| Of the white lines on the free free way |