| She came from, well, in Garden City
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| 'fore she moved into my town
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| She was stone cold broke but her legs were pretty
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| And her hair looked mean as she let her hair down
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| She followed in her mother’s footsteps
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| To make a little cash on the side
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| Invested in a well-made cat suit
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| Showed all the boys she had nothing to hide
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| She’s just a Sunday stripper
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| At the bar on the corner
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| She’s a g-string tripper
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| But I’m in love with her
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| I get dressed every Sunday morning
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| Get my hair back nice and clean
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| I take a slow walk down to the bar she works
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| And I try to find me a front row seat
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| I sit there quietly drinking
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| I never have to wait too long
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| Before she’s up there in spotlight satin
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| And the beer gets too low
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| I picture her putting on her make-up
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| Deciding what to wear
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| I can see her hand pulling up her stockings
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| Painted nails riding through her hair
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| And as I sit believing
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| She goes in just for me
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| The others watch but I don’t care
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| She’s mine for all the world to see |