| Walken' liquor has done me wrong
|
| I can’t sleep night out of day
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| That terrible feeling comes along
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| When I can’t get me begins get away,
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| Five at fours a mix or two
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| They call it sugar blend
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| If you drink the bootleg shine
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| You sure have an achin' head,
|
| Did you ever wake upon a Sunday morn'
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| with the snakes all around your bed
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| I know you have I have too
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| I know I’d rather be dead
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| The preacher comes around and gives advice
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| And then you have to stall
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| But if he gets to the bottle first,
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| You know never no leaving out at all,
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| I tell you brother and I won’t lie
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| What the matter in this land
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| Drink it wet and wode it dry,
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| And hide it if they can
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| The bid shape morning
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| And they all get drunk
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| And call it society
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| But if they catch you with pine,
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| Good morning penetentionary.
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| Prohibition has killed more folks
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| than sure man ever have seen
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| If they don’t get whiskey they’ll take dope
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| Cocaine and morphine,
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| This ol' country sure ain’t dry
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| And dry wont ever be seen
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| Prohibition is just a scheme
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| A fine money makin' machine
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| Corpholic acid and creosole’ll surely kill any man
|
| Some get paralyzed and some get well,
|
| Some hit the golden land,
|
| The Undertaker has got to live,
|
| Beat him if you can,
|
| Prohibition say it again,
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| Is a Money makin' fine Machine. |