| There’s a bottle of whiskey up above the stove
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| It’s been there thirty years I know
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| Only used for coughs and colds at mama’s house
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| In the air there’s a combination
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| Of home baked bread and pan fried bacon
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| No, there’s no mistaking mama’s house
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| It seems smaller than the day I left
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| It don’t matter how big I get
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| I still wipe my feet and watch my mouth
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| At mama’s house
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| Thing’s round here still looks the same
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| Like a picture in a frame
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| The light bill’s still in daddy’s name at mama’s house
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| You won’t find one speck of dust
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| One dirty spoon, or coffee cup
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| And that ol' dog will still eat you up at mama’s house
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| It seems smaller than the day I left
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| It don’t matter how big I get
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| I still wipe my feet and watch my mouth
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| At mama’s house
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| That driveway’s still paved with white rocks
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| Though her name ain’t on the mailbox
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| Come what may there won’t ever be any doubt
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| That’s mama’s house
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| It seems smaller than the day I left
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| It don’t matter how big I get
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| I still wipe my feet and watch my mouth
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| She’s always so glad to see me Her little boy will always be me
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| I think I’ll spent this out
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| And head on down to mama’s house |