| All you fine young bloods must think yourselves immune
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| From the traps that time will set in the sweetest tune
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| You must whistle up your winds and rosin up your bow
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| But none can foretell which is the path the restless muse will go
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| Oh, this rocky road, it makes a poor heart sore
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| If I ever get off this rocky road, I’ll ne’er get on it any more
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| Oh, this rocky road, it makes a poor heart sore
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| If I ever get off this rocky road, I’ll ne’er get on it any more
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| I used to take delight in my 'baccy and strong beer
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| I’d blow the smoke rings way up high, watch them disappear
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| And I’d drain the tumblers dry, just to loosen up my tongue
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| And I’d sing the weary miles behind with a rambling song
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| Oh, this rocky road, it makes a poor heart sore
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| If I ever get off this rocky road, I’ll ne’er get on it any more
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| Oh, this rocky road, it makes a poor heart sore
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| If I ever get off this rocky road, I’ll ne’er get on it any more
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| Well, I’ve roamed around this world and I’ve rode the clouds and the waves
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| I’ve met with poor men who were kings and rich men who were slaves
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| And I’ve knelt beneath the spires and I’ve heard some holy men
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| Bend the words to fit the world as it seems to them
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| Oh, this rocky road, it makes a poor heart sore
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| If I ever get off this rocky road, I’ll ne’er get on it any more
|
| Oh, this rocky road, it makes a poor heart sore
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| If I ever get off this rocky road, I’ll ne’er get on it any more
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| Not any more
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| Not any more |