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Now he was a wino tried and true |
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Done about everything there is to do |
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He worked on freighters and he worked in bars |
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He worked on farms and he worked on cars |
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Well it was white port wine that put that look in his eyes |
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Grown men get when they need to cry |
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We sat down on the curb to rest |
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His head just fell down on his chest |
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He says, "Every single day it gets just |
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A little bit harder to handle and yet" |
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Then he lost the thread and his mind got cluttered |
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And the words just rolled off down the gutter |
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Well he was an elevator man in a cheap hotel |
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In exchange for the rent on a one room cell |
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And he was old years beyond his time |
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No thanks to the world and the white port wine |
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So he said, "Son", he always called me son |
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He said, "Life for you has just begun" |
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Then he told me the story I'd heard before |
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How he fell in love with a Dallas whore |
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Now he could cut through the years to the very night |
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That it ended in a whorehouse fight |
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When she turned his last proposal down |
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In favor of bein' a girl about town |
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Now it's been seventeen years right in line |
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And he ain't been straightened none of the time |
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It's too many days of fightin' the weather |
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And too many nights of not bein' together |
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So he died |
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When they went through his personal effects |
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And among the stubs from a welfare checks |
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Was a crumblin' picture of a girl in a door |
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And in a dress in Dallas and nothing more |
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The welfare people provided the Priest |
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The couple from the mission down the street |
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Sang 'Amazing grace' and no one cried |
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Except some lady in black way off to the side |
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We all left and she was standin' there |
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The black veil coverin' her silver hair |
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Ol' one-eyed John said, "Her name was Alice |
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She used to be a whore in Dallas" |
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So let him roll, Lord let him roll |
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I bet he's gone to Dallas to rest his soul |
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Just you let him roll, Lord let him roar |
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He always said that Heaven was just a Dallas whore |
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Just you let him roll, Lord let him roll |
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I bet he's gone to Dallas to rest his soul |