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Honey, don't you be yelling at me when I'm cleaning my gun |
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I'll wash the blood off the tailgate when deer season's done |
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We got one more weekend to go |
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And I'd like to kill one more doe |
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So I'll shovel the sidewalk again 'cause you're still in a stew |
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I bet the bridge tender's widow won't mind that I can't please you |
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She's sure got the run of the men |
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Out here where the pickin's are thin and there's not much to do |
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I woke up last night in the grip of a fright scared to breathe for I might make a noise |
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This life that we craved so little we saved between the grandparents graves and the grandchildren's toys |
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We grew up hard and our children don't know what that means |
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We turned into our parents before we were out of our teens |
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Through a series of Chevys and Fords |
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The occasional spin round the floor at the Copper Canteen |
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Now the big boxes out on the bypass are shaving us thin |
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I guess we'll hold on a couple more years 'til the pension kicks in |
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Then we'll sell all the stock in the store |
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Leave only the lock on the door |
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And wonder what then |
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When I wake up at night in the grip of a fright and you hold me so tight to your chest |
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Then your breath on my skin still pulls me back in 'til I'm weightless and then I can rest |
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So if Monsignor should pull you aside as you're leaving the church |
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And I'm out on the ice, dropping lines for the walleye and perch |
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Tell him it's not your job to bring me to the fold |
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And I'd rather stand out in the cold |
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And honey I know that the woodpile's low and you can't close the flue |
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So I'll split up a couple more cords 'fore the winter time's through |
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Hold on to your rosary beads |
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Leave me to my mischievous deeds like we always do |