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So in America when the sun goes down
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and I sit on the old, broken-down river pier
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watching the long, long skies over New Jersey
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and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable, huge bulge
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over the West Coast and all that road going,
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all the people dreaming and the immensity of it,
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and in Iowa I know by now the children must be crying in the land
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where they let the children cry
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and tonight the stars will be out and don't you know that
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God is Pooh Bear?
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The evening star must be drooping
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and shedding her sparkler dims on the prairie,