It's the twilight hour.
As the sun goes down,
I see a flatbed Ford with a scrapyard load
rattle off through town.

The railroad crossing lights flash on---
there ain't no train in sight.

A crescent moon will soon ascend
as day gives way to night.

and I feel home...
and I think how far away
I got from home
back in the bad old days,
but I'm done turning diamonds to coal.

Now just before dinner time,
this old drunk comes knocking on my door.
Say he's looking for some girl lived here
twenty-seven years ago.

The radio in the kitchen is playing
Papa Was A Rolling Stone,
and as he strolls away into the night
and the streetlights flicker on,

I get to thinking about home....
and how sometimes there comes a day
when to try to get back home...
all you can do is run away.
But I'm done turning diamonds to coal.

In love we find out who we are,
in sorrow we abide.
Our strength's revealed by what we build
from the broken things inside.
But a day will come when you will know
which way you must choose to go...
to travel on and live alone
or turn yourself around
and try to get back home.

And now way up high two jet planes
weave spider webs across the sky.
As that flatbed Ford has dropped his load---
now there he goes, swinging by.
And the silence gathering round this house
makes such a lovely sound,
that I know for sure that I am cured
from turning diamonds...
from turning diamonds...
diamonds to coal.

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