| There’s a black bird
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| Perched up on a black dog
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| And they’re plotting your demise
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| Lazing in the backyard
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| And there’s an old man
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| Keeps his money in his old bed
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| And he ain’t handing out no prize
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| Just takes it to his death bed
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| He ain’t waiting for no prize
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| Just takes it to his death bed
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| Bring out a rose, put down a rose
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| Lay down a rose in the cemetery
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| Bring out a rose, put down a rose
|
| Lay down a rose in the cemetery
|
| There’s a dirt road
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| Leading up to a dirt farm
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| The only harvest to the table
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| From the pills made in the bathtub
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| And there’s a warrior
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| His old buddies call him Gunny
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| Keeps his honor in a lockbox
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| Locked up in the basement
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| Keeps all his honor in a lockbox
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| Locked up in the basement
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| Bring out your guns, put down your guns
|
| Lay down your guns in the cemetery
|
| Bring out your guns, put down your guns
|
| Lay down your guns in the cemetery
|
| If you ever
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| Find yourself in Franklin County
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| Won’t you turn on back
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| Or you won’t leave here above ground
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| 'Cause there’s a monster
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| It’s feeding on the essence
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| Oh, of every goddamned soul
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| And never gets its fill
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| Oh, of every goddamned soul
|
| And never gets its fill
|
| Bring out your dead, put down your dead
|
| Lay down the dead in the cemetery
|
| Bring out your dead, put down your dead
|
| Lay down the dead in the cemetery
|
| Bring out a rose, put down your guns
|
| Lay down the dead in the cemetery
|
| Bring out a rose, put down your guns
|
| Lay down the dead in the cemetery |