| Ringling, Ringling
|
| Slippin' away
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| Only forty people, livin' there today
|
| Streets are dusty and the bank has been torn down
|
| It’s a dyin' little town
|
| Church windows broken
|
| That place ain’t been used in years
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| Jail don’t have a sheriff or a cell
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| And electric trains they run by maybe once or twice a month
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| Easin' it on down to Musselshell
|
| Ringling, Ringling
|
| Slippin' away
|
| Only forty people livin' there today
|
| `Cause the streets are dusty and the bank had been torn down
|
| It’s a dyin' little town
|
| And across from the bar there’s a pile of beer cans
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| Been there twenty-seven years
|
| Imagine all the heart aches and tears
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| In twenty-seven years of beer
|
| So we hopped back in the rental car
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| and we hit the cruise control
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| Pretty soon the town was out of sight
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| Though we left behind a fat barmaid, a cowboy and a dog
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| Racin' for a Ringling Friday night
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| Ringling, Ringling
|
| Your just slippin' away
|
| I wonder how many people will be there a year from today
|
| `Cause the streets are dusty and the bank has been torn down
|
| It’s a dyin' little town
|
| It’s a dyin' little town |