| In faded gabardine he used to stand
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| Down by the Union Station with that ol’hat in his hand.
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| A banjo-pickin'devil, a singin’rag-time saint.
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| The young folks called him beautiful, the old folks called him quaint.
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| And the station-master pointed to the sign
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| And they busted him for loiterin’when he was makin’memories rhyme.
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| Out in the falling snow he’d sing his song
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| To a world too cold to listen and too white to sing along.
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| Just a Nashville casualty and life
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| Done left him without a dime.
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| Ever since the good Lord took his wife
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| You’ll find him strummin’on the corner all the time.
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| And most of Music City never the saw the world within the song
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| Of a Nashville casualty and life Ђ" goes on.
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| In the attic sets a dusty hat and cane
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| And the kids they found a banjo there all rusted from the rain.
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| I strummed a little rusty rag-time beat
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| And I sang for every soul out on the street.
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| I could almost see him standin’in the rain
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| His black and blinded face reflectin’all the pain
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| Of all the years and people passin’by |
| And all the ringin’memories that can make a banjo cry.
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| Just a Nashville casualty and life
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| It’s a riff that’s hell to play.
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| You sings for your livin’in the street
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| And you sleeps in the back of some caf© And most of Music City never sees the world within the song
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| Of a Nashville casualty and life Ђ" goes on. |