| I don’t care to say what
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| I failed to recognize
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| Every single day from the poker to the prize
|
| Running out of Springfield
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| I worked for the Capitol Air, in the bags
|
| Found a woman there who said
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| she had a mind to make
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| me a messenger man
|
| If my father took his life
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| for the national plan, I don’t care
|
| I’m not about to stick my grave with an
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| apron and a bucket of plans, never ever
|
| I can take the pillow cases
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| off the yellow pillows,
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| make a property line from the bed
|
| In the living room, the living room,
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| the morning papers made the most
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| out of nothing at all
|
| So we took the room
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| with a view of the runaway
|
| I took off my clothes,
|
| and she took it for a holiday
|
| I was taken for all the things
|
| that I never had before
|
| Running out of Springfield
|
| she left me with a note saying:
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| «Bobby, don’t look back.»
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| And if my wife took a bicycle ride
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| with a knife in her hand
|
| I saw it coming
|
| All the shad-flies run at once
|
| with a trumpet or a train,
|
| oh I’m running from it
|
| Wait a minute, wait a minute,
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| Give a minute, lady
|
| I can explain the aftershave
|
| Wait a minute, wait a minute,
|
| give a minute
|
| Bobby got a shad fly
|
| caught in his hair |