| Red hands as big as Ulster
|
| Stubble on his chin
|
| We’d wrestle on the front room floor
|
| And his beard would burn my skin
|
| When Dickie Davis told us
|
| That Lester’s horse had won
|
| I’d run along behind him
|
| And he’d shield me from the sun
|
| With the money from their winnin’s
|
| They’d sing and drink till dawn
|
| And I got to stay up late at night
|
| And put their records on
|
| Dusty Springfield, dusty case
|
| He kept the music in
|
| Bobby Darin, Mack The Knife
|
| And a love that I can’t win
|
| I’d pile them high
|
| (I'd pile them high)
|
| The 45s
|
| (The 45s)
|
| That he would make me choose
|
| When Patsy Cline was crazy
|
| And Guy Mitchell sang the blues
|
| But when I wasn’t lookin'
|
| The music moved away
|
| Hank Williams never came around
|
| And Sinatra wouldn’t stay
|
| And talkin' to the old man
|
| Was filled with hurt and pain
|
| So Johnny Ray would spend his nights
|
| Just walkin' in the rain
|
| I’d pile them high
|
| (I'd pile them high)
|
| The 45s
|
| (The 45s)
|
| That he would make me choose
|
| When Patsy Cline was crazy
|
| And Guy Mitchell sang the blues
|
| Now I’m sittin' here on Island Hill
|
| And both of them have gone
|
| But on the wind, I hear him laugh
|
| «Son, put the records on.»
|
| If I could have just one more night
|
| I know that I’d still choose
|
| When Patsy Cline was crazy
|
| And Guy Mitchell sang the blues
|
| Oh, oh, oh
|
| Oh, oh, oh
|
| Oh, oh, oh
|
| Oh, oh, oh
|
| Oh, oh, oh
|
| Oh, oh, oh
|
| When Patsy Cline was crazy
|
| When Patsy Cline was crazy
|
| When Patsy Cline was crazy |