| It was just after dark when the truck started down
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| The hill that leads into Scranton Pennsylvania
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| Carrying thirty thousand pounds of bananas
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| Carrying thirty thousand pounds
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| Hit it big John
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| Of bananas
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| He was a young driver
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| Just out on his second job
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| And he was carrying the next day’s pasty fruits
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| For everyone in that coal scarred city
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| Where children play without despair
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| In backyard slag piles and folks manage to eat each day
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| About thirty thousand pounds of bananas
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| Yes, just about thirty thousand pounds
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| Scream it again, John
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| Of bananas
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| He passed a sign that he should have seen
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| Saying «Shift to low gear, a fifty dollar fine my friend.»
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| He was thinking perhaps about the warm breathed woman
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| Who was waiting at the journey’s end
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| He started down the two mile drop
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| The curving road that wound from the top of the hill
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| He was pushing on through the shortening miles
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| That ran down to the depot
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| Just a few more miles to go
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| Then he’d go home and have her ease his long, cramped day away
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| And the smell of thirty thousand pounds of bananas
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| Yes the smell of thirty thousand pounds of bananas
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| He was picking speed as the city spread its twinkling lights, below him
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| But he paid no heed as the shivering thoughts of the night’s
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| Delights went through him
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| His foot nudged the brakes to slow him down
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| But the pedal floored easy without a sound
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| He said, «Christ»
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| It was funny how he had named the only man
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| Who could save him now
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| He was trapped inside a dead-end hellslide
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| Riding on his fear hunched back
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| Was everyone of those yellow green
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| I’m telling you thirty thousand pounds of bananas
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| Yes, there were thirty thousand pounds of bananas
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| He barely made the sweeping curve
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| That led into the steepest grade
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| And he missed the thankful passing bus
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| At ninety miles an hour
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| And he said, «God, make it a dream»
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| As he rode his last tread down
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| He said, «God, make it a dream»
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| As he rode his last tread down
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| And he sideswiped nineteen neat parked cars
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| Clipped off thirteen telephone poles
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| Hit two houses, bruised eight trees
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| And Blue Crossed seven people
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| It was then he lost his head
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| Not to mention an arm or two before he stopped
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| And he slid for four hundred yards
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| Along the hill that leads into Scranton Pennsylvania
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| All those thirty thousand pounds of bananas
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| You know the man who told me about it on the bus
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| As it went up the hill out of Scranton, Pennsylvania
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| He shrugged his shoulders, he shook his head
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| And he said
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| And this is exactly what he said
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| «Boy that sure must’ve been something
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| Just imagine thirty thousand pounds of bananas»
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| Yes, there were thirty thousand pounds of mashed bananas
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| Of bananas, bananas, just bananas, thirty thousand pounds
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| Of bananas, not no driver now, just bananas |