| His daddy was an honest man, red dirt Georgia farmer
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| His mamma lived her short life having kids and baling hay
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| He had fifteen years, an ache inside to wander
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| He hopped a freight in Waycross, wound up in L.A.
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| Lord the cold nights had no pity on a Waycross Georgia farmboy
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| Most days he went hungry, then the summer came
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| He met a girl known on the strip as San Francisco’s Mabel Joy
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| Destitutions child born of an L.A. street called shame
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| Growing up came quietly in the arms of Mabel Joy
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| Laughter found their mornings, brought a meaning to his life
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| Yes, the night before she left, sleep came and left that Waycross country boy
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| with dreams of Georgia cotton and a California wife
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| Sunday morning found him standing 'neath the red light of her door
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| When a right cross sent him reeling, put him face down on the floor
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| In place of Mabel Joy he found a merchant mad merine, he growled that Georgia
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| neck is red, but sonny your still green
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| He turned twenty-one in a gray rock federal prison
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| The old judge had no mercy for a Waycross Georgia boy
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| Starin' at those four gray, in silence he would listen
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| That midnight freight he knew would take him back to Mabel Joy
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| Sunday morning found him lyin' 'neath the red light of her door
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| With a bullet in his side he cried have you seen Mabel Joy
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| Stunned and shaken someone said she’s not here no more
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| She left this house four years today
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| They say she’s looking for some Georgia farm boy |