| His mama was a midnight woman
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| His daddy was a drifter drummer
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| One night they put it together
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| Nine months later came the little black bummer
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| He was a laid back lump in the cradle
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| Chewing the paint chips that fell from the ceiling
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| Whenever he cried he got a fist in his face
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| So he learned not to show his feelings
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| He was a pigtail puller in grammar school
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| Left back twice by the seventh grade
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| Sniffing glue in Junior High
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| And the first one in school to get laid
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| He was a weed-speed pusher at fifteen
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| He was mainlining skag a year later
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| He’d started pimping when they put him away
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| In jail he changed from a junkie to a hater
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| And just like the man from the precinct said:
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| «Put him away, you better kill him instead
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| A bummer like that is better of dead
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| Someday they’re gonna have to put a bullet in his head.»
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| They threw him back on the street, he robbed an A & P
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| He didn’t blink at the buddy that he shafted
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| And just about the time they would have caught him too
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| He had the damn good fortune to get drafted
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| He was A-One bait for Vietnam, you see they needed more bodies in a hurry
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| He was a cinch to train cause all they had to do
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| Was to figure how to funnel his fury
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| They put him in a tank near the D M Z
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| To catch the gooks slipping over the border
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| They said his mission was to Search and Destroy
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| And for once he followed an order
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| One sweat-soaked day in the Yung-Po Valley
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| With the ground still steaming from the rain
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| There was a bloody little battle that didn’t mean nothing
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| Except to the few that remained
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| You see a couple hundred slants had trapped the other five tanks
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| And had started to pick off the crews
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| When he came on the scene and it really did seem
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| This is why he’d paid those dues
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| It was something like a butcher going berserk
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| Or a sane man acting like a fool
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| Or the bravest thing that a man had ever done
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| Or a madman blowing his cool
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| Well he came on through like a knife through butter
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| Or a scythe sweeping through the grass
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| Or to say it like the man would have said it himself:
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| «Just a big black bastard kicking ass!»
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| And just like the man from the precinct said:
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| «Put him away, you better kill him instead
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| A bummer like that is better of dead
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| Someday they’re gonna have to put a bullet in his head.»
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| When it was over and the smoke had cleared
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| There were a lot of V C bodies in the mud
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| And when the rescued men came over for the very first time
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| They found him smiling as he lay in his blood
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| They picked up the pieces and they stitched him back together
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| He pulled through though they thought he was a goner
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| And it force them to give him what they said they would
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| Six purple hearts and the Medal of Honor
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| Of course he slouched as the chief white honkey said:
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| «Service beyond the call of duty»
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| But the first soft thought was passing through his mind
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| «My medal is a Mother of a beauty!»
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| He got a couple of jobs with the ribbon on his chest
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| And though he tried he really couldn’t do 'em
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| There was only a couple of things that he was really trained for
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| And he found himself drifting back to 'em
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| Just about the time he was ready to break
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| The V A stopped sending him his checks
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| Just a matter of time 'cause there was no doubt
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| About what he was going to do next
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| It ended up one night in a grocery store
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| Gun in hand and nine cops at the door
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| And when his last battle was over
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| He lay crumpled and broken on the floor
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| And just like the man from the precinct said:
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| «Put him away, you better kill him instead
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| A bummer like that is better of dead
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| Someday they’re gonna have to put a bullet in his head.»
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| Well he’d breathed his last, but ten minutes past
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| Before they dared to enter the place
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| And when they flipped his riddled body over they found
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| His second smile frozen on his face
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| They found his gun where he’d thrown it
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| There was something else clenched in his fist
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| And when they pried his fingers open they found the Medal of Honor
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| And the Sergeant said: «Where in the hell he get this?»
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| There was a stew about burying him in Arlington
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| So they shipped him in box to Fayette
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| And they kind of stashed him in a grave in the county plot
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| The kind we remember to forget
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| And just like the man from the precinct said:
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| «Put him away, you better kill him instead
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| A bummer like that is better of dead
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| Someday they’re gonna have to put a bullet in his head.» |