| He was just and old country doctor in a small Georgia town
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| Fame and fortune had passed him by but we never saw him frown
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| As day by day in his kindly way he served us one and all
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| Many a patient forgot to pay although Doc’s fees were small
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| But ol' Doc Brown didn’t seem to mind in fact he didn’t even send out bills
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| His only ambition it seemed was to find sure cures for aches and ills
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| Why nearly half the folks in our home town
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| And yes I’m one of them too were ushered in by ol' Doc Brown
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| When we made our first debaut ah he needed his dimes
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| And there were times he’d receive a fee
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| But he would pass it on to some poor soul that he said needed it worse than he
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| So when hard times hit our town and drained each meager purse
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| The scanty income of Ol' Doc Brown just went from bad to worse
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| He had to sell his furniture why he couldn’t even pay his office rent
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| And so to an old dusty room over a liberty stable Ol' Doc Brown and his satchel
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| went
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| On the hitching post at the curb below to advertise his wares
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| He nailed up a little sign that read «Doc Brown has moved up stairs»
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| And there he kept on helping people get well and his heart was pure gold
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| But anyone with eyes could see that Doc was getting old
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| Then one day he didn’t even answer when they knocked upon his door
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| Ol' Doc Brown was lying down but his life was no more
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| They found him there in his old black suit but on his face was a smile of
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| contentment
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| But all the money they could find on him was a quarter and one ol' copper cent
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| So they opened up his ledger and what they saw gave their hearts a pull
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| Cause beside each debtor’s name Ol' Doc had written «Paid in full»
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| Well it looked like the potter’s field for Doc and that caused us some alarm
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| 'Till some one remembered the family graveyard out on the Simmon’s farm
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| Ol' Doc had brought six of their kids into this world and Simmons was a
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| grateful cuss
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| He said «Doc been like one of the family so he can sleep with us.»
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| Ol' Doc Brown should have had a funeral fine enough for a king
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| It’s a ghastly joke that our town was broke and no one could give a thing
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| Except Jones the undertaker he did mighty well
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| He donated an old iron casket he’d never been able to sell
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| And the funeral procession well it wasn’t much for grace and pomp and style
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| But those wagonloads of mourners they stretched out for more than a mile
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| And we breathed a prayer as we laid him there to rest beneath the sod
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| This man who had earned the right to be on speaking terms with God
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| His grave was covered with flowers but not from the floral shop
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| Just roses and things from folks gardens and one or two dandelion tops
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| For times had hit our town hard and each man carried a load
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| So some just picked the wild flowers as they passed along the way
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| We wanted to give Doc a monument we kind of figured we owed him one
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| Cause he had made our town a better place for all the good he had done
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| But monuments cost money so we just did the best we could
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| And on his grave we just placed a monument of wood
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| We pulled up that old hitching post where Doc had nailed his sign
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| We painted it white and to all of us it surely did look fine
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| Now the rains and snow has washed away our white trimmings of paint
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| And there ain’t nothing left but Doc’s old sign and even that’s getting faint
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| And still when southern breezes and twinkling stars cross our little town
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| And pail moonlight shines through Georgia pines on the grave of Ol' Doc Brown
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| You can still see that old hitching post as if in answer to our prayers
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| Proudly telling the whole wide world Doc Brown has moved up stairs |