| He had a blue wing tattooed on his shoulder
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| Well, it might have been a blue bird, I don’t know
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| But he gets stone drunk and talks about Alaska
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| The salmon boats and 45 below
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| He said he got that blue wing up in Walla Walla
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| Where his cellmate there was Little Willy John
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| And Willy, he was once a great blues singer
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| And winging Willy wrote him up a song
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| He said: It’s dark in here, can’t see the sky
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| But I look at this blue wing, and I close my eyes
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| And I fly away beyond these walls
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| Up above the clouds, where the rain don’t fall
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| On a poor man’s dreams
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| They paroled Blue Wing in August of 1963
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| And he moved on, picking apples, to the town of Wenatchee
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| Then winter finally caught him in a run-down trailer park
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| On the south side of Seattle, where the days grow gray and dark
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| And he drank and he dreamt of visions, when the salmon still ran free
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| And his father’s fathers crossed that wild old Bering Sea
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| And the land belonged to everyone, and there were old songs yet to sing
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| Now, it’s narrowed down to a cheap hotel and a tattooed prison wing
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| He said: It’s dark in here, can’t see the sky
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| But I look at this blue wing, and I close my eyes
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| And I fly away beyond these walls
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| Up above the clouds, where the rain don’t fall
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| On a poor man’s dreams
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| Well, he drank his way to LA, and that’s where he died
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| But no one knew his Christian name, and there was no one there to cry
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| But I dreamt there was a service, a preacher and a cheap pine box
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| And half way through the service, Blue wing began to talk
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| He said: It’s dark in here, can’t see the sky
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| But I look at this blue wing, and I close my eyes
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| And then I fly away beyond these walls
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| Up above the clouds, where the rain don’t fall
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| On a poor man’s dreams
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| Yeah, yeah, on a poor man’s dreams
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| Yeah, yeah, on a poor man’s dreams |