| It was a cold and cruel evening
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| Sneaking up on Speedy Creek
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| Found myself asleep and in the snow
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| One or two odd reasons
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| I ain’t too proud to repeat
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| For now we’ll say I had no place to go
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| There was a rustle and a humming
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| Just hauling down the street
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| I drew myself up from my icy bed
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| Painted on that shiny car the letters 'RCM and P'
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| I can feel a little aching in my head
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| And then out jumps this old boy
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| About twice the size of me
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| He asked me for my name and where I dwell
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| I just looked him in the eye
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| And sang 'Blue Yodel Number 9'
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| He didn’t catch the reference, I could tell
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| Then the old, familiar click
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| In the handcuffs bind and grip
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| Should have left me in the snow, where I laid
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| He just laughed and touched his gun
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| And turned to me and he said
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| Son, I bet you don’t own a damn thing
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| To your name
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| Well, I got my health
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| My John B Stetson
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| Got a bottle full of baby’s bluebird wine
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| And I left my stash
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| Somewhere down in Preston
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| Along with thirteen silver dollars and my mind
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| Well, I got my health
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| My John B Stetson
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| Got me a bottle full of baby’s bluebird wine
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| And I left my stash
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| Somewhere down in Preston
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| Along with thirteen silver dollars and my mind |