| Well stage right enter Jimmy,
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| just a counterfeit James Dean,
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| with a pocket full of delta blues and cheap amphetamine.
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| Her feet up on the dashboard,
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| like a burned out Betty Paige,
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| and she might have been pretty if she was half her age.
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| But together they were something,
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| just closing down the bars,
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| headed down to Oakie City in a slightly stolen car.
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| The folks were decent people,
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| they didn’t like they’re kind,
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| when the car pulled in the driveway the were staring through the blinds.
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| The preacher in the kitchen,
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| he’s eatin apple pie,
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| and momma’s in the bedroom she couldn’t help but cry.
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| And daddy looked so natural,
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| like he’d just gone to sleep,
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| and the preacher looked through Jimmy and prayed his soul to keep.
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| Coming home,
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| coming home,
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| there’s nothing like a family to make you feel so damned alone.
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| you should’ve brought flowers,
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| should’ve got daddy’s gun,
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| ain’t nobody waiting on the prodigal son.
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| Well they pulled out into traffic,
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| fell in behind the hearse,
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| and that awful empty feeling well it went from bad to worse.
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| The preacher read some scripture,
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| and they put him in the ground,
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| then everybody loaded up and headed back to town.
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| But Jimmy got his whiskey out,
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| when everyone was gone,
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| felt he should’ve said something staring down at the stone.
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| The men all folded tables,
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| while the ladies cleaned the plates,
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| and the cousins asked about the car locked behind the gate.
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| Jimmy knew his dad’s .38,
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| was in that trunk burried deep,
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| and it would find its rightful owner once his momma wen to sleep.
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| And Jimmy looked at momma,
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| momma just looked down,
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| she said why’s it take a funeral just to bring you back to town? |