| The girls all dance with the boys from the city
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| But they don’t care to dance with me
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| Well it ain’t my fault that the fields are muddy
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| And the red clay stains my feet
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| Well its under my nails and its under my collar
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| And it shows on my Sunday clothes
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| Though I do my best with soap and water
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| That damned old dirt won’t go
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| But when I pass through the pearly gates
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| Will my gown be gold instead
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| Or just a red clay robe with red clay wings
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| And a red clay halo for my head
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| It’s mud in the spring and it’s dust in the summer
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| When it rolls in crimson tide
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| 'Til the trees and leaves and the cows are the color
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| Of the dirt on the mountainside
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| Now Jordan’s banks are red and muddy
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| And the rolling water is wide
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| But I got no boat, so I’ll be good and muddy
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| When I get to the other side
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| I’ll take the red clay robe and the red clay wings
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| And the red clay halo for my head |