i left chicago with the summer time as the yawning nights drew to a close couldn t get the smell of grass and cheap red wine out of my mind headlights on for it was growing dim like signal fires to the moon young and free and on my own again whistling a traveling tune whistling a traveling tune the map sprawls out like a prophecy the road paves over an old wound though my soul is like a flock of geese headed home to soon whistling a traveling tune
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