i had no control over this. i wasn't intending to write this song.
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i thought this was only going to be about how good it felt to leave. it wound up being about my father, who i only knew for a year. my mother met him in williamsburg virginia, he was a rifle smith. i went back to williamsburg last year with her and we talked a lot about how i can't trust myself around womenfolk thanks to him (he was the consumate lady's man). in the middle of this i got floored by the prettiest pair of grey eyes i've ever seen at the millener's (dress maker) shop. here i was in the middle of figuring out my place in the world, and along come these eyes. so i ran, of course. but now i have a song and plan for the next time i'm out east.
i didn't come up with the "everyman is the son of his own works" i forget just who did but chances are they're pretty dead now and the line could use a little bit of airing out.
oh, and pablo neruda's the one to blame for the title. he said, " the poet's duty is to leave and come back again" or something to that effect.
come to think of it i think the only original bit on this song is the whining. that's all me.
it's been five days since i met a soul in this town
and yes i had a good time last night
f c
but i've been thinking of leaving
am e
and the things you said last evening
f
got me thinking
g c
that my thinking there was right
there's still a girl in williamsburg Virginia
and i would bet that she still owns that dress
f c am
we i'll say girl i dont mean to offend ya
e f g c
but what can i ask to get them ruby lips to say yes
d am
cause walking away is same as walking to
d f
it only matters where you stand
c g am
but every man is the son of his own works
f c g am
every inch of you i touch is with my own hands
d
break
i've got a ghost of a father in ohio
i found him at the end of a trail of broken hearts
f c
i'm sure i've got a lot to run from
am e f
but i've found myself running straight
g c
back to the place where this all starts
d am
cause walking away is same as walking to
d f
it only matters where you stand
c g am
but every man is the son of his own works
f c g am
every inch of you i touch is with my own hands
c g am
but every man is the son of his own works
f c g am
every inch of you i touch is with my own hands