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I drive a broke down rig on May-pop tires |
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Forty foot of overload |
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A lot of people say that I'm crazy |
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Because I don't know how to take it slow |
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I got a broomstick on the throttle |
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I got her opened up and head right down |
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Nonstop back to Dallas |
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Poppin' them West Coast turn arounds |
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And they call me Speedball, Speedball Tucker |
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Terror of the highways and all them other truckers |
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Will tell you that the boy is mad |
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To be drivin' in a rig like that |
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You know the rain may blow |
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The snow may snow |
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And the turnpikes they may freeze |
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But they don't bother ol' Speedball |
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He goin' any damn way he please |
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He got a broomstick on the throttle |
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To keep his throttle foot a-dancin' 'round |
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With a cupful of cold black coffee |
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And a pocketful of West Coast turn arounds |
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And they call me Speedball, Speedball Tucker |
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Terror of the highways and all them other truckers |
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Will tell you that the boy is mad |
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To be drivin' in a rig like that |
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One day I looked into my rear view mirror |
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And a-comin' up from behind |
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There was a Georgia State policeman |
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And a hundred dollar fine |
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Well, he looked me in the eye as he was writin' me up |
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And said, "Driver, you've been flyin' |
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And ninety five was the route you were on |
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It was not the speed limit sign" |
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And they call me Speedball, Speedball Tucker |
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Terror of the highways and all them other truckers |
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Will tell you that the boy is mad |
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To be drivin' in a rig like that |
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And they call me Speedball, Speedball Tucker |
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Terror of the highways and all them other truckers |
|
Will tell you that the boy is mad |
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To be drivin' in a rig like that |