| I played the Red River Valley
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| He’d sit in the kitchen and cry
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| Run his fingers through seventy years of livin'
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| «I wonder, Lord, has every well I’ve drilled gone dry?»
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| We were friends, me and this old man
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| Like desperados waitin' for a train
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| Desperados waitin' for a train
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| He’s a drifter, a driller of oil wells
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| He’s an old school man of the world
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| Taught me how to drive his car when he was too drunk to
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| And he’d wink and give me money for the girls
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| And our lives were like, some old Western movie
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| Like desperados waitin' for a train
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| Like desperados waitin' for a train
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| From the time that I could walk he’d take me with him
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| To a bar called the Green Frog Cafe
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| There was old men with beer guts and dominoes
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| Lying 'bout their lives while they played
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| I was just a kid, they all called me «Sidekick»
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| Just like desperados waitin' for a train
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| Like desperados waitin' for a train
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| One day I looked up and he’s pushin' eighty
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| He’s got brown tobacco stains all down his chin
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| To me he was a hero of this country
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| So why’s he all dressed up like them old men
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| Drinkin' beer and playin' Moon and Forty-two
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| Like desperados waitin' for a train
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| Desperados waitin' for a train
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| The day before he died I went to see him
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| I was grown and he was almost gone.
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| So we closed our eyes and dreamed us up a kitchen
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| And sang one more verse to that old song
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| Come on, Jack, that son-of-a-bitch is comin'
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| Desperados waitin' for a train
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| Desperados waitin' for a train. |