| I remember the smell of the creosote plant
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| When we’d have to eat on Easter with my crazy old uncle and aunt
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| They lived in a big house, antebellum style (antebellum)
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| And the winds would blow across the old bayou
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| And I was a tranquil little child
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| Life was just a tire swing
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| 'Jambalaya' was the only song I could sing
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| Blackberry pickin', eatin' fried chicken
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| And I never knew a thing about pain
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| Life was just a tire swing
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| In a few summers my folks packed me off to camp
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| Yeah me and my cousin' Baxter in our pup tent with a lamp
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| And in a few days Baxter went home and he left me by myself
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| But I knew that I’d stay, it was better that way
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| And I could get along without any help
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| Life was just a tire swing
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| 'Jambalaya' was the only song I could sing
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| Blackberry pickin', eatin' fried chicken
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| And I never knew a thing about pain
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| Life was just a tire swing
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| And I never been west of New Orleans or east of Pensacola
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| My only contact with the outside world was an RCA Victoria
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| And Elvis would sing and then I’d dream about expensive cars
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| And who would’ve figured twenty years later
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| I’d be rubbin' shoulders with the stars
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| Life was just a tire swing
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| Then the other mornin' on some Illinois road
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| I fell asleep at the wheel
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| But was quickly wakened up by a 'Ma Bell' telephone pole
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| And a bunch of Grant Wood faces screamin' «Is he still alive?»
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| Through the window I could see it hangin' from a tree
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| And I knew that I had survived
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| And life is still a tire swing
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| 'Jambalaya' is the best song I can sing
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| Blackberry pickin', eatin' fried chicken
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| But I finally learned a lot about pain
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| Life is just a tire swing (tire swing)
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| Life was just a tire swing (tire swing)
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| Life was just a tire swing (tire swing)
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| Life was just a tire swing (tire swing) |