| A white man, in a white suit, an a white horse rides into town off that dusty
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| ol' trail.
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| He rides into town, not just any town. |
| I’m talking d-e-a-de-n-d
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| With integrity and his heart on his sleeve.
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| He hopes they are going to buy what he believes.
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| He offers every fool and every friend.
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| That’s a population of one hundred and three.
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| A cure to their unchristian like ways.
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| With a simple process of «drawing out»
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| Through the hole in the top of the skull
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| Then a snip, a cut and a couple of knots tied off.
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| He offers to make them as good as new.
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| «Better than you’re used to»
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| Sadly. |
| The locals didn’t take kindly to this well intentioned man
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| They don’t want a hand out form him.
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| Instead, they take offense to a man coming into their town looking to tell
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| right from wrong.
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| That’s when the situation goes from bad to worse.
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| As they string him up at the town hall.
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| It appears our smart-ass should have kept along that dusty, lonely trail.
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| They tell him «The hands are the eyelids of the soul.» |