| They’re little more than a few old guns
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| Handed down the line
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| Once owned by my Grandma and Grandpa
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| And now they’re mine
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| They’ve been all the way to Utah
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| Then back home to Texas again
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| They’ve seen Colorado, Wyoming
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| And the Grand Canyon
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| And hunting trips in the freezing snow
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| And up before the sun
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| And now they’re a part of me, I got the guns
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| I never really got to know him
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| I was much too young
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| He died on the Corpus Christi Bay
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| When I was one
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| A Christian man I barely knew
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| But he was oh so proud of me
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| He ran the nursery at the church for free
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| «Amazing Grace how sweet the sound» he always sung
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| Sometimes I can hear him when I fire his guns
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| I’ve seen tears in grown men’s eyes when they spoke of their granddad
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| Then they laugh at how he spoiled then to the bone
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| Well I don’t have those memories that I can hold on to
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| But I keep holding on to his old guns
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| I was his only daughter’s son
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| His pride and all his love
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| Maybe someday if I try my best
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| I’ll be half the man he was
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| He knew love lasted longer
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| The great depression only made him stronger
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| He saved his pennies
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| And prayed to God each night
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| He knew how to weather hard times
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| And showed us how to overcome
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| And I can feel his strength when I hold his guns
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| I’ve seen tears in grown men’s eyes when they spoke of their granddad
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| Then they laugh at how he spoiled then to the bone
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| Well I don’t have those memories that I can hold on to
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| But I keep holding on to his old guns
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| Just a bolt-action 20 gauge
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| And my grandmother’s 410
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| A 270 that my dad fired once
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| And brought a mule deer in
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| Well I wonder what he’d think of all this going on down here
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| And making all this fuss about his old guns
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| I’ve got the guns |