released: Oct.2007 |
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Lyrics By Bruce Springsteen The speculators made their money On the blood you shed Your mama's pulled the sheets up off you bed The profiteers on Jane Street Sold you shoes and clothes Ain't nobody talking 'cause everybody knows We pulled you cycle out of the garage And polished up the chrome Our Gypsy biker's comin' home
Sister Mary sits with your colors Brother John is drunk and gone This whole town's been rousted Which side are you on The favored march up over the hill In some fools parade Shoutin' victory for the righteous But there ain't much here but graves Ain't nobody talkin' We're just waitin' on the phone Our Gypsy biker's comin' home
We rode her into the foothills Bobby brought the gasoline We stood 'round her in a circle As she lit up the ravine The spring high desert wind Rushed down on us all the way back home
To the dead it don't matter much 'Bout who's wrong or right You asked me that question I didn't get it right You slipped into your darkness Now all that remains Is my love for you brother Lying still and unchanged To them that threw you away You ain't nothin' but gone Our Gypsy biker's comin' home
Now I'm out countin' white lines Countin' white lines and getting stoned My Gypsy biker's coming home
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