| He’s a wino, tried and true.
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| Done about everything there is to do.
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| He worked on freighters, he worked in bars.
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| He worked on farms, 'n he worked on cars.
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| It was white port, that put that look in his eye
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| That grown men get when they need to cry
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| And he sat down on the curb to rest
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| And his head just fell down on his chest
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| He said «Every single day it gets
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| A little bit harder to handle and yet.. .»
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| And he lost the thread and his mind got cluttered
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| And the words just rolled off down in the gutter
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| Well he was elevator man in a cheap hotel
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| In exchange for the rent on a one room cell
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| He’s old in years beyond his time
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| Thanks to the world, and the white Port wine
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| So he says «Son,"he always called me son
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| He said, «Life for you has just begun»
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| And he told me a story that I heard before
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| How he fell in love with a Dallas whore
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| Well he could cut through the years to the very night
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| When it ended, in a whore house fight
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| And she turned his last proposal down
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| In favor of being a girl about town
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| Now it’s been seventeen years right in line
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| And he ain’t been straight none of the time
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| Too many days of fightin’the weather
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| And too many nights of not being together
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| So he died.. .
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| Well when they went through his personal affects
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| In among the stubs from the welfare checks
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| Was a crumblin’picture of a girl in a door
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| An address in Dallas, and nothin’more
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| The welfare people provided the priest
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| A couple from the mission down the street
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| Sang Amazing Grace, and no one cried
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| 'Cept some woman in black, way off to the side
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| We all left and she was standing there
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| Black veil covering her silver hair
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| And 'ol One-Eyed John said her name was Alice
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| And she used to be a whore in Dallas
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| Let him roar, Lord let him roll
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| Bet he’s gone to Dallas Rest his soul
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| Lord, let him roll, Lord let him roar
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| He always said that heaven
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| Was just a Dallas whore. |