| When I was five years old
|
| Lookin' through the window pane
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| There was debt growin' in the fields
|
| Every year it was the same
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| There was burnt up corn
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| Livin in a dusty haze
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| And daddy’d say good night son, I love you
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| And pray for rain
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| Well, it was about mid July when daddy’s pride sank
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| He told my momma, he was goin' to the bank
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| He put on his Sunday’s best, but it didn’t hide his pain
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| The banker said take the money son
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| But you better, pray for rain
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| Well there’s no clouds to hide the sun
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| And there’s no waters in the creeks
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| And there’s a fear in the congregation
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| Every Sunday when we meet
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| That the devil’s found West Texas
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| And he may never leave
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| The preacher gives his sermon
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| Says pay your tithes and pray for rain
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| Now my daddy’s land is mine
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| And times sure ain’t the same
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| The blacktop’s taken over
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| There’s no room to grow the grain
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| And now the man down at the bank
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| He don’t understand my pain
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| Cause he don’t have to lay his head down every night
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| And pray for rain
|
| When I was five years old
|
| Lookin' through the window pane
|
| There was debt growin in the fields
|
| Every year it was the same
|
| There was burnt up corn
|
| Livin' in a dusty haze
|
| And daddy’d say good night son
|
| I love you
|
| And pray for rain |