| Ruby said you’re gettin' us in a world of hurt
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| And down below the Mason Dumb Ass line the food gets worse
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| I can’t go back to Tennessee That NASCAR country’s not for me
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| Go on if you think you must
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| Carlos packed his drums up in the dark of night
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| Ruby standing just outside the front porch light
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| Chain-smoking Camel straights
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| The sky off to the East got grey
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| And he rolled off in a cloud of dust
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| The grey colt nickered at the gate
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| She said «you're right it’s gettin' late
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| You and me got work to do
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| We can’t be burning daylight too»
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| She took down the long lead rope
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| And stayed off that slippery slope
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| The aspen trees were turning gold up top
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| The talk was buzzing round the beauty shop
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| «Wasn't he barely half her age?»
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| «Well that’s just how they do nowadays
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| We should all a’been so lucky»
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| By spring she’d had the run of all the freeborn men
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| Ruby turned fifty in a sheep camp tent
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| Her body still could rock all night
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| But her heart was closed and locked up tight
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| Potato fields all muddy and brown
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| The gossip long since quieted down
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| After one more Coggins test
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| Pouring coffee for the county vet
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| Pictures on the ice box door
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| Of Carlos in the first Gulf War
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| Black eyed, brown and youthful face
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| Smiling back from a Saudi base
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| Then Carlos on the big bay mare
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| Heavier now and longer haired
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| Looking past the saddle shed
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| From way on back inside his head
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| The old vet said one day Rube
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| That colt will break an egg in you
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| Now and then one comes along
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| You just can’t ride then he went on home
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| The storm door didn’t catch
|
| It blew back hard As she struck a match
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| But she cupped it just in time
|
| Then she sent that ash tray flying (
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| Holding back the flood
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| Just don’t do no good
|
| You can’t unclench your teeth
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| To howl the way you should
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| So you curl your lips around
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| The taste of tears and a hollow sound
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| That no one owns but you
|
| No one owns but you
|
| Carlos took the road gig and he saw it through
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| He rode the tour bus while the singer flew
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| Managed out of Music Row
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| Carlos never saw the studio
|
| Session guys had that all sewn up
|
| He looks out the window as it starts to sleet
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| Layin' on a friend’s couch on Nevada Street
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| Lately he’s been staying high
|
| Sick all winter and they don’t know why
|
| They don’t know why or they just won’t say
|
| They don’t talk much down at the VA
|
| Ruby’s in his thoughts sometimes
|
| What thoughts can get out past the wine
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| He feels her fingers on his brow
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| And right then he misses how
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| She looked in that grey morning light
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| She never shaved like they all do now
|
| He sees it all behind his eyes
|
| His hands go searching but they come up dry
|
| Halfway in that waking dream
|
| Carlos lets the land line ring
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| He’d never have guessed it was Ruby calling
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| A pin in her hip from the grey colt falling
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| Figure eights in a lazy lope
|
| Stumbled on that slippery slope |