The House I Live In
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What is A-mer-i-ca to me?
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A name, a map, a flag I see,
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A certain word, "De-moc-ra-cy."
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What is A-mer-i-ca to me?
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The house I live in -- a plot of earth, a street,
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The grocer and the butcher, all the people that I meet,
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The children in the playground, the faces that I see;
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All races, and religions -- that's A-mer-i-ca to me.
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The place I work in, the worker at my side
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The little town or city where my people lived and died
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The "howdy" and the handshake, the air of feeling free
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The right to speak my mind out that's A-mer-i-ca to me.
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The things I see about me the big things and the small
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The little corner newsstand and the house a mile tall;
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The wedding and the churchyard, the laughter and the tears,
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The dream that's been a growin' for two-hundred thirty years.*
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The town I live in, the street, the house, the room,
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The pavement of the city, or a garden all in bloom,
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The church, the school, the club house, the million lights I see,
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But especially the people -- that's A-mer-i-ca to me.
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Especially the people -- that's A-mt-i-ca to me --.