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American Pie
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Music: Don McLean Measure: 4/4 binary Genre: Pop Style: Song |
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| | A long, long time ago... | | |
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I can still remember | | |
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How that music used to make me smile. | | |
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And I knew if I had my chance | | |
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That I could make those people dance | | |
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And, maybe, they’d be happy for a while. | | |
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But february made me shiver | | |
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With every paper I’d deliver. | | |
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Bad news on the doorstep; | | |
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I couldn’t take one more step. | | |
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I can’t remember if I cried | | |
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When I read about his widowed bride, | | |
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But something touched me deep inside | | |
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The day the music died. | | |
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So bye-bye, miss american pie. | | |
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Drove my chevy to the levee, | | |
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But the levee was dry. | | |
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And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye | | |
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Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die. | | |
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"this’ll be the day that I die." | | |
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Did you write the book of love, | | |
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And do you have faith in God above, | | |
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If the Bible tells you so? | | |
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Do you believe in rock ’n roll, | | |
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Can music save your mortal soul, | | |
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And can you teach me how to dance real slow? | | |
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Well, I know that you’re in love with him | | |
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`cause I saw you dancin’ in the gym. | | |
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You both kicked off your shoes. | | |
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Man, I dig those rhythm and blues. | | |
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I was a lonely teenage broncin’ buck | | |
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With a pink carnation and a pickup truck, | | |
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But I knew I was out of luck | | |
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The day the music died. | | |
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I started singin’, | | |
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"bye-bye, miss american pie." | | |
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Drove my chevy to the levee, | | |
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But the levee was dry. | | |
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Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye | | |
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And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die. | | |
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"this’ll be the day that I die." | | |
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Now for ten years we’ve been on our own | | |
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And moss grows fat on a rollin’ stone, | | |
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But that’s not how it used to be. | | |
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When the jester sang for the king and queen, | | |
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In a coat he borrowed from james dean | | |
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And a voice that came from you and me, | | |
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Oh, and while the king was looking down, | | |
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The jester stole his thorny crown. | | |
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The courtroom was adjourned; | | |
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No verdict was returned. | | |
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And while lennon read a book of marx, | | |
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The quartet practiced in the park, | | |
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And we sang dirges in the dark | | |
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The day the music died. | | |
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We were singing, | | |
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"bye-bye, miss american pie." | | |
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Drove my chevy to the levee, | | |
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But the levee was dry. | | |
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Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye | | |
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And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die. | | |
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"this’ll be the day that I die." | | |
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Helter skelter in a summer swelter. | | |
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The birds flew off with a fallout shelter, | | |
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Eight miles high and falling fast. | | |
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It landed foul on the grass. | | |
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The players tried for a forward pass, | | |
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With the jester on the sidelines in a cast. | | |
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Now the half-time air was sweet perfume | | |
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While the sergeants played a marching tune. | | |
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We all got up to dance, | | |
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Oh, but we never got the chance! | | |
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`cause the players tried to take the field; | | |
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The marching band refused to yield. | | |
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Do you recall what was revealed | | |
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The day the music died? | | |
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We started singing, | | |
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"bye-bye, miss american pie." | | |
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Drove my chevy to the levee, | | |
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But the levee was dry. | | |
| |
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye | | |
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And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die. | | |
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"this’ll be the day that I die." | | |
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Oh, and there we were all in one place, | | |
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A generation lost in space | | |
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With no time left to start again. | | |
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So come on: jack be nimble, jack be quick! | | |
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Jack flash sat on a candlestick | | |
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Cause fire is the devil’s only friend. | | |
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Oh, and as I watched him on the stage | | |
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My hands were clenched in fists of rage. | | |
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No angel born in hell | | |
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Could break that satan’s spell. | | |
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And as the flames climbed high into the night | | |
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To light the sacrificial rite, | | |
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I saw satan laughing with delight | | |
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The day the music died | | |
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He was singing, | | |
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"bye-bye, miss american pie." | | |
| |
Drove my chevy to the levee, | | |
| |
But the levee was dry. | | |
| |
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye | | |
| |
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die. | | |
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"this’ll be the day that I die." | | |
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I met a girl who sang the blues | | |
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And I asked her for some happy news, | | |
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But she just smiled and turned away. | | |
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I went down to the sacred store | | |
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Where I’d heard the music years before, | | |
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But the man there said the music wouldn’t play. | | |
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And in the streets: the children screamed, | | |
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The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed. | | |
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But not a word was spoken; | | |
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The church bells all were broken. | | |
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And the three men I admire most: | | |
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The father, son, and the holy ghost, | | |
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They caught the last train for the coast | | |
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The day the music died. | | |
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| | |
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And they were singing, | | |
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"bye-bye, miss american pie." | | |
| |
Drove my chevy to the levee, | | |
| |
But the levee was dry. | | |
| |
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye | | |
| |
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die. | | |
| |
"this’ll be the day that I die." | | |
| |
| | |
| |
They were singing, | | |
| |
"bye-bye, miss american pie." | | |
| |
Drove my chevy to the levee, | | |
| |
But the levee was dry. | | |
| |
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye | | |
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Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die." | | |
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