| Lonnie Garamond was disturbed by the face
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| That looked back at him from the bathroom mirror
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| He looked older than he remembered
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| It was as if all forty-two years of his life
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| Had suddenly leap frogged over each other
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| And crash landed in his face
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| He was middle-aged and the truth hit him
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| Like a man with no parachute
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| The eyes were golfballs
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| The skin hung on his face like a cheap suit
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| And the trapdoor of greasy black frizz
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| That he combed from one side of his head to the other
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| To hide his baldness
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| In reality emphasized it
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| It was 2:30 in the morning Nov. 22nd 1963
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| And Lonnie couldn’t sleep
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| Lonnie took a last look at the face
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| And popped another sleeping tablet
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| Under his sandpaper tongue
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| And slipped into a cold, dark sleep
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| The last thing Lonnie saw
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| Before his eyes finally closed
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| Was his camera watching him
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| From the other side of the Motel room
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| But the camera wasn’t loaded yet
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| Lonnie Garamond was a loser
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| Lonnie Garamond was a loser
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| Lonnie Garamond was a loser
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| And he really hated being that
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| Lonnie’s body clock woke him at 8:30 sharp
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| He stabbed a button by his bed
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| And the TV crackled into life
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| Showing the crowds already gathering
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| In Dealy Plaza
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| He showered, shaved, and slipped into an Ivy League jacket
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| And brown slacks and loaded the camera
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| The Stetson put the icing on the southern cake
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| And he headed for the parking lot
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| Leaving the key behind in his room
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| He knew he wouldn’t be coming back
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| Lonnie Garamond was a loser
|
| Lonnie Garamond was a loser
|
| Lonnie Garamond was a loser
|
| And he really hated being that
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| Lonnie parked the Buick and ran down Pacific St
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| It was 12.15 and he wanted to be outside
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| The Texas School Book Depository
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| Before the motorcade came down Elm St
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| He elbowed his way through a group of good ol' boys
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| And stood next to a kid in a wheelchair
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| Waving a Confederate flag
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| He took off the lens cap
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| And lit his first cigarette for two years
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| He checked the focus one last time
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| And blew a smoke ring
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| Into the blue Dallas heat haze
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| He ground the Lucky Strike under the heel of his boot
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| And calmly squeezed off three shots
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| Lonnie put the camera back into its case
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| And melted into the panic
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| Lonnie Garamond was a loser
|
| Lonnie Garamond was a loser
|
| Lonnie Garamond was a loser
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| And he really hated being that |