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Nadine

from American Rhymin by Matt Monta

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lyrics

The guards in the watchtowers
Count down the hours
While all of their telephones ring
The power lines catch fire
And smell like burned tires
As the falling bombs whistle and sing.

And I know a girl there
With long curly blonde hair
And I hope she remembers my name.
Cause this ain't our home now
We got nowhere to go now
And ain't nothin ever gonna be the same.

So Nadine, where ya been tonight?
Nadine, it's time to leave.
This town ain't never gonna see us again.

The smokers bum smokes
While the jokers tell jokes
But nobody finds 'em too funny.
The tycoons sell stars
From the trunks of their cars
With their greasy hands all over our money.

And the nurses get frisky
While the doctors drink whiskey
And laugh at the hearbeat machine.
Their scalpel's been sharpened,
Their liquor's been darkened,
They're arguing over Nadine.

Nadine, where ya been tonight?
Nadine, it's time to leave.
This town ain't never gonna see us again.

So the radio plays a song
And we all sing along
But don't recall a single word that we say
But we'll blast out our lungs
Til the gas tank is done
And we'll have to walk the rest of the way

Now there's ears on the road
For a story that's told
And sold to the highest bidder
Some folks are gonna bluff you
Others are gonna cuff you
Nadine'll do both if you let her.

Nadine, where ya been tonight?
Nadine, it's time to leave.
This town ain't never gonna see us again.

It was just about too late
When I jumped the fencegate
And landed in the garden of the queen
My car was turned over
It was burnin on clover
And that's when I found my Nadine

So please loan me some tokens
My wrist watch is broken
Not a single train is runnin on time
And we gotta move fast, baby
Or we'll turn into ash, baby
And be sleepin in the dirt and the lime

Nadine, where ya been tonight?
Nadine, it's time to leave.
This town ain't never gonna see us again.

credits

from American Rhymin, released March 25, 2013

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about

Matt Monta Richmond, Virginia

Voice for singing. Guitar for strumming. Harmonica for wailing. Boots for stomping.

Honest songs from a hard-working heartland.

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