A talking blues.
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Written one afternoon and recorded that same day on my iPod in my bedroom.
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I'm trying to find my way back home
But I don't have a home
I'll just find the closest road
And I'll set my feet to roam
Is that alright?
Is that alright?
I was born with a spoon in my mouth
But I still don't know what kind
It might've been silver, but I spit it out
And I never bothered to find
Is that alright?
Is that alright?
I know damn well what's good for me
But it don't taste quite right
I can't get it down, but I'll get around
And I'll live until I die
Is that alright?
Is that alright?
Yeah, that's alright
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