| Billy Dee was seventeen when he turned twenty-one
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| Fooling with some foolish things he could’ve left alone
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| But he had to try to satisfy a thirst he couldn’t name
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| Driven toward the darkness by the devils in his veins
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| All around the honky-tonks, searching for a sign
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| Gettin' by on gettin' high on women, words and wine
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| Some folks called him crazy, Lord, and others called him free
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| But we just called us lucky for the love of Billy Dee
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| Busy goin' his own way and speakin' his own words
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| Facin' and forgettin' every warnin' that he heard
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| Makin' friends and takin' any crazy chance he could
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| Gettin' busted for the bad times and believin' in the good
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| Billy took a beatin' from a world he meant no harm
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| The score was written in the scars upon his arm
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| Some felt he was payin' for the life he tried to lead
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| But all we felt was sorry for our good friend Billy Dee
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| It may be his soul was bigger than a body’s ought to be
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| Singin' songs and bringin' laughter to the likes of you and me
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| 'Cause the world he saw was sadder than the one he hoped to find
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| But it wasn’t near as lonesome as the one he left behind
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| Yesterday they found him on the floor of his hotel
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| Reachin' toward the needle, Lord, that drove him down to hell
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| Some folks called it suicide, others blame the speed
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| But we just called it crucified when Billy Dee O.D.'d |