Green, Green Grass Of Home
Curly Putman / Tom Jones (1966)
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The | old home town looks the same as I | step down from the | train, |
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And there to meet me is my mama and | papa. |
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Down the | road I look and | there runs Mary, | hair of gold and | lips like cherries, |
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It's | good to touch the | green, green | grass of | home. |
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Yes, they'll all come to | meet me, | arms a-reaching, smiling sweetly; |
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It's | good to touch the | green, green | grass of | home. |
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The | old house is still standing, though the | paint is cracked and | dry, |
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And there's that old oak tree that I used to | play on; |
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Down the | lane I walk and with | my sweet Mary, | hair of gold an lips like cherries; |
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it's | good to touch the | green, green | grass of | home. |
spoken
Then I awake and look around me, at the four gray walls that surround me; |
And I realize that I was only dreaming. |
For there's a guard and there's a sad old padre. Arm and arm we'll walk at daybreak, |
Again I'll touch the green, green grass of home. |
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Yes, they'll all come to | see me in the | shade of that old oak tree; |
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As they | lay me 'neath the | green, green | grass of | home. |