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The blood red sun beat down and baked the red clay ground |
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Dust kicked up around his John Deere wheels |
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No trace of rain in sight, again he'll lose the fight |
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And have to watch his crops die in the fields |
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They stood there both in tears, his wife of many years |
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Said John, "You know I hate to lose our farm" |
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He looked into her eyes then looked up at the skies |
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And told her as he held her in his arms |
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"In my next life, I want to be your hero |
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Somethin' better than I turned out to be |
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I've lived this life behind the plough and harrow |
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In my next life, I'll make you proud of me" |
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The muscles in his arms just like his run down farm |
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Soon withered up and slowly disappeared |
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One hard workin' man, two hard workin' hands |
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Were givin' up after all these years |
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His aging eyes grew dim and the lady that worshiped him |
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Sat cryin' on a chair beside his bed |
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Her hands caressed his brow and she said it's alright now |
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And as he slowly slipped away, he said |
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"In my next life, I want to be your hero |
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Somethin' better than I turned out to be |
|
I've lived this life behind the plough and harrow |
|
In my next life, I'll make you proud of me" |
|
"In my next life, I want to be your hero |
|
Somethin' better than I turned out to be |
|
I've lived this life behind the plough and harrow |
|
In my next life, I'll make you proud of me |
|
In my next life, I'll make you proud of me" |