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I've sung this song, but I'll sing it again, |
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Of the place that I lived on the wild windy plains, |
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In the month called April, county called Gray, |
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And here's what all of the people there say: |
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So long, it's been good to know yuh; |
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So long, it's been good to know yuh; |
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So long, it's been good to know yuh. |
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This dusty old dust is a-gettin' my home, |
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And I got to be driftin' along. |
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A dust storm hit, an' it hit like thunder; |
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It dusted us over, an' it covered us under; |
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Blocked out the traffic an' blocked out the sun, |
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Straight for home all the people did run, |
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Singin': |
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We talked of the end of the world, and then |
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We'd sing a song an' then sing it again. |
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We'd sit for an hour an' not say a word, |
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And then these words would be heard: |
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Sweethearts sat in the dark and sparked, |
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They hugged and kissed in that dusty old dark. |
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They sighed and cried, hugged and kissed, |
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Instead of marriage, they talked like this: |
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"Honey..." |
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Now, the telephone rang, an' it jumped off the wall, |
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That was the preacher, a-makin' his call. |
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He said, "Kind friend, this may the end; |
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An' you got your last chance of salvation of sin!" |
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The churches was jammed, and the churches was packed, |
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An' that dusty old dust storm blowed so black. |
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Preacher could not read a word of his text, |
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An' he folded his specs, an' he took up collection, |
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Said: |