| I got drafted at 19
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| Me and a bunch of boys from home
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| January '43
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| Drove out to Pine Bluff and signed on
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| Went to basic, south of Birmingham
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| Put me on west coast bound train
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| Spent three days out in San Diego
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| And they shipped me back east again
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| Left a port, out of New York
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| Slept for months in British rain
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| Tore it up, down in London town
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| And they shipped me back out again
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| The preacher said «Boys, he who is killed, tonight
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| Will dine with the Lord in paradise»
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| One boy spoke up, said «Preacher, come on
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| Eat your supper with us»
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| Never talk about those first days
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| Lots of friends left behind
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| But I made it all the way across France
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| And I fought at the Maginot line
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| Road a tank into Belgium
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| Like them better than the French
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| Like my daddy, thirty years before
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| I did my time in a trench
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| Lots of days, there’s no water
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| But the liquor kept me warm
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| The cellars were stocked to the ceiling with booze
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| So I carried a bottle with my gun
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| The preacher said «Boys, he who is killed, tonight
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| Will dine with the Lord in paradise»
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| One boy spoke up, said «Preacher, come on
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| Eat your supper with us»
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| Three times, I made sergeant
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| I’m not that kind of man
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| And pretty much, just as quick as I could
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| I get busted back to private again
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| 'Cause taking orders never suited me
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| Giving them out was much worse
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| I could not stand to get my friends killed
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| So I took care of myself, first
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| Now, I know that don’t sound right
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| Don’t think too bad of me
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| Now it keeps me up, nights
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| What I could have done, differently
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| The preacher said «Boys, he who is killed, tonight
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| Will dine with the Lord in paradise»
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| One boy spoke up, said «Preacher, come on
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| Eat your supper with us»
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| I’d be no guest at the table of the Lord
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| His food was not to be mine
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| 'Cause I cursed his name, every chance that I could
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| And I reckon that’s why I’m still alive |