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Cheyenne
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Donovan Woods
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I am going on my way to see what’s left of Cheyenne I’ve known the name all my life, ain’t put a face to it yet And there’s just too many things I ain’t seen so I am Driving north to find it And every couple miles the reception dies on out And there’s a buzzing in my mind a little looming cloud Like I’m waiting on a call that I’m gonna miss somehow Ain’t that some sweet irony I was hoping to feel something undeniable I was sold a bill of goods by doc*mentaries and books ‘Cause it’s just another town on its way back down To being wholly unremarkable There’s a dead famous writer buried in some southern state He won the Pulitzer Prize, now he’s a weekend trip away And I figured I’d sit calmly in the gra** beside his grave But it was dirt and empty bottles I was hoping to feel something undeniable I was sold a bill of goods by doc*mentaries and books And it strikes me that he would be shaken by this scene So doesn’t that make me the problem I am going on my way to see what’s left of Cheyenne I’ve known the name all my life, ain’t put a face to it yet And there’s just too many things I ain’t seen so I am Driving north to find it
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