| Looked like a hundred guns held on me
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| Hunkered by the shed of Detroit General & Company
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| Calling, «Boy come out, we have you jailed»
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| Beside the buck-shot door, I stood still
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| Wondering how the hell the bastards found me in those hills
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| And clinging to a letter that I wished I’d mailed
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| Go rest easy, Madeline
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| I’m bringing down the bank across this flooded county line
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| And when I get home, we’ll have a grand old time
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| But don’t you shed no tears or be surprised
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| If you get the word that your wild man has up and died
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| Just set me up a stone on that high hillside
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| Now in the pouring snow, sad, but swift
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| I headed down the highway
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| Hoping that the burden of my blues would lift
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| And praying that the whiskey would keep me brave
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| Oh, but I got caught in the cold
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| Looking like a hobo without no mercy from the road
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| And feeling like a dead man without a grave
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| Go rest easy, Madeline
|
| I’m bringing down the bank across this flooded county line
|
| And when I get home, we’ll have a grand old time
|
| But don’t you shed no tears or be surprised
|
| If you get the word that your wild man has up and died
|
| Just set me up a stone on that high hillside
|
| Oh my, oh my
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| Bloodied-up and chained, my legs pinned down
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| I woke to find my fate in the hands of four men gathered 'round
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| And cursing for the bag they knew I’d hid
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| And the more they stomped and moaned, the more I prayed
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| Feeling every spark flying off of that file and their rusted blade
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| Said, «Better think it through, this is your last chance, kid»
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| Oh, rest easy, Madeline
|
| I’m bringing down the bank across this flooded county line
|
| And when I get home, we’ll have a grand old time
|
| But don’t you shed no tears or be surprised
|
| If you get the word that your wild man has up and died
|
| Just set me up a stone on that high hillside |