| When I was a curly headed baby
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| My daddy sat me down on his knee
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| He said, «son, go to school and get your letters,
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| Don’t you be a dusty coal miner, boy, like me.»
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| I was born and raised at the mouth of hazard hollow
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| The coal cars rolled and rumbled past my door
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| But now they stand in a rusty row all empty
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| Because the l & n don’t stop here anymore
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| I used to think my daddy was a black man
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| With script enough to buy the company store
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| But now he goes to town with empty pockets
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| And his face is white as a February snow
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| I never thought I’d learn to love the coal dust
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| I never thought I’d pray to hear that whistle roar
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| Oh, god, I wish the grass would turn to money
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| And those green backs would fill my pockets once more
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| Last night I dreamed I went down to the office
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| To get my pay like a had done before
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| But them ol' kudzu vines were coverin' the door
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| And there were leaves and grass growin' right up through the floor |