| I’m down to one key in my pocket*
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| The bus station locker downtown,
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| The soles of my shoes,
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| Are as thin as my wallet,
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| I been sleeping close to the ground
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| But buried up here in my memory,
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| Is a head full of living room hits,
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| I wrote about Thelma when we were an item,
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| And I was worth more than two bits,
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| So I’ll sing you a song about Thelma,
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| If you have a quarter to spare,
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| If you had the time or a bottle of wine,
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| That you’d be willing to share,
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| And later I’ll show you a picture,
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| Of Thelma when she’s in her prime,
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| If you want to see mr I’ve got the key,
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| And the bus station locker take dimes,
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| I had me a band in the 60's,
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| «ladies Texas outlaw,»
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| Thelma could sing so we moved nashville,
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| And in '68, she got hot,
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| A high flyin' record producer,
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| Told Thelma he’d make her a star,
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| He wined her and dined her and stole her away
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| And left me with my old guitar,
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| She died last year on my birthday,
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| The day that I turned 65,
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| Most have forgotten including her fans,
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| But I’m keeping her memory alive,
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| 'cuz I’ve got this key in my pocket,
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| I’ve had since '72,
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| I’ve built her a shrine in that locker downtown,
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| And I think she’d be pleased if she knew
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| So I’ll sing you a song about Thelma,
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| If you have a quarter to spare,
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| If you have the time or a bottle of wine,
|
| And you’d be willing to share,
|
| Later I’ll show you a picture,
|
| Of Thelma when she’s in her prime,
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| If you wanna see mr I’ve got the key,
|
| And the bus station locker takes dimes
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| If you wanna see mr I’ve got the key
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| And the bus station locker takes dimes |