| Those other years, the dusty years
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| We drove the big hearse through
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| I tried to forget the miles we rode
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| And Spanish Johnny too
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| He’d sit beside a water ditch when all ??
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| And he’d never harm a child, but sing to his mandolin
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| The old talk, the old ways, and the dealing of our game
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| But Spanish Johnny never spoke, but sang a song of Spain
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| And his talk with men was vicious talk when he was drunk on gin
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| Ah, but those were golden things he said to his mandolin
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| Well we had to stand, we tried to judge, we had to stop him then
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| For the hand so gentle to a child had killed so many men
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| He died a hard death long ago before the roads come in
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| And the night before he swung, he sung to his mandolin
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| Well, we carried him out in the morning sun
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| A man that done no good
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| And we lowered him down in the cold clay
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| Stuck in a cross of wood
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| And a letter we wrote to his kinfolk
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| To tell them where he’d been
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| And we shipped it out to Mexico along with his mandolin |