| Pore Jud is daid
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| Pore Jud Fry is daid
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| All gather 'round his coffin now and cry
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| He had a heart of gold
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| And he wasn’t very old—
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| Oh why did such a feller hive to die?
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| Pore Jud is daid
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| Pore Jud Fry is daid
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| He’s lookin' oh so peaceful and serene—
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| And serene!
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| He’s all laid out to rest
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| With his hands acrost his chest
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| His fingernails have never been so clean!
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| (spoken)
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| Then the preacher’d get up and he’d say
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| «Folks, we are gathered here to moan and groan over our brother Jud Fry,
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| who hung hisself up by a rope in his smokehouse»
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| Then there’d be weepin' and wailin' from some of those women
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| Then he’d say
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| «Jud was the most misunderstood man in this here territory
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| People used to think he was a mean ugly feller
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| And they called him a dirty skunk and an ornery pig stealer
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| But the folks 'at really knowed him
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| Knowed that beneath them two dirty shirts he always wore
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| There beat a heart as big as all outdoors»
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| As big as all outdoors
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| Jud Fry loved his feller man
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| He loved his feller man
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| He loved the birds of the air and the beasts of the field. |
| He loved the mice
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| and the vermin in the barns, and he treated the rats like equals,
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| which was right. |
| And he loved little children. |
| He loved everybody and
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| everything in the world! |
| Only, only he never let on, so nobody ever knowed it
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| (sung)
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| Pore Jud is daid
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| Pore Jud Fry is daid
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| His friends’ll weep and wail fer miles around
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| Miles around
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| The daisies in the dell
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| Will give out a diff’rent smell
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| Because Pore Jud is underneath the ground
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| Pore Jud is daid
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| A candle lights his haid
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| He’s layin' in a coffin made of wood
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| Wood
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| And folks are feelin' sad
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| Cause they use to treat him bad
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| And now they know their friend is gone fer good
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| Good
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| Pore Jud is daid
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| A candle lights his haid
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| He’s lookin' oh so purty and so nice
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| He looks like he’s asleep
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| It’s a shame that he won’t keep
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| But it’s summer and we’re running out of ice
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| Pore Jud, Pore Jud |