| I’d seen the bloodlands of Antietam
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| The shotgun shack in Tupelo
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| But a brick circumference left hollow by Sherman
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| Crumbling before me how it moaned
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| His shape swallows my recollection
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| That phantom silhouette implied
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| Strange fruit rotting from an airborne and hotter than hell
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| Is this the king’s last man I’ve spied?
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| I stood there beside my companion
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| Scratching a rumor he had heard
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| Do you have a gun?
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| What? |
| He said, yeah, you mean this one?
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| Straight down the barrel was his word
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| And I smelt the fumes he inhaled swiftly
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| Each word was hinged upon his choke
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| Like kudzu creeping up a state tree discretely
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| Forever bending as it broke
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| And I heard the jangling keys of Graceland
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| Ring from his teeth stained brown from coke
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| Drunk and stumbling like a man of distinction
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| They clamored shaking as he spoke
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| Of droves of pilgrims at his doorway
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| Of Reagan, Carter, Clinton, Gore
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| Fortunes offered them, refused routinely
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| This ain’t no damn auction house he swore
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| Black male standing around 6 foot something
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| Ebbs through the waves of small town blight
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| A minute coldly from southern affection
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| Collides secretly into night
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| Forgive those who trespass against us
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| Began as the dead intruders plea
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| Into the very muzzle I’d once peered into
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| He gives the last words he will speak
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| But that broken glass supports forced entry
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| Reminds his lawyer through the phone
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| What southern judge do you know, comforting gently
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| Who jails white men who defend their home
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| No souls were present for the moment
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| His bombed out brick walls finally fell
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| Lying face down in the throes of atonement
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| Checked out of the Heartbreak Hotel
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| He was the uncast shadow of a southern myth |