As life calls me to travel far and wide,
thoughts of home go with me, as down the road I ride.
But, on the highest mountain, or out on the deep blue sea,
I can't forget my friends and family.
There's no place on the planet quite the same.
No matter how far out I go,
play this worldly game.
Breezes may smell sweeter, when far afield they blow,
but back to where I came from I must go.
To that godforsaken hellhole I call home.
It always draws me back again, wherever I may roam.
As squalid as Calcutta, as decadent as Rome,
that godforsaken hellhole I call home.
When I see that welcome sign, I shed a tear.
"Why have I come back again?
What am I doing here?"
But like a life-long sentence,
without hope for parole,
I can't escape these shackles on my soul.
In that godforsaken hellhole I call home.
It always draws me back again, wherever I may roam.
Farther out than Fargo, lonelier than Nome,
that godforsaken hellhole I call home.
This stranger came to town and asked me "Why?"
Instead of pulling in again, I don't just pass it by.
But all my friends are buried here,
and some of them are dead.
So home is where I'll always hang my head.
In that godforsaken hellhole I call home.
It always draws me back again, wherever I may roam.
As squalid as Calcutta, as decadent as Rome,
that godforsaken hellhole I call home.
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