| Tiger Tom Dixon had a gift from god
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| He could hit you quick he could hit you hard
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| In a world where a mans hands are put to the test
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| Tiger Tom Dixon’s hands were the best
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| Before stepping into the ring
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| Little joe would tie them gloves on tight
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| After humbling that man Tom would tie one on in spite
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| Kick back into a whisky like it was an easy chair
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| Drink to anything that the devil may care
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| Men came from Boston and Ohio
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| Corners of counties that you’ll never know
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| Barstools and bar rooms with nothing to show
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| 'cept for the fist that they did throw at
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| Tiger Tom Dixon
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| Now Tom held the future in his right fist
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| But there was no good time Tom Dixon could resist
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| Was no neon in New England he hadn’t passed out under
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| Was no white lightening that hadn’t felt his thunder
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| As the seasons moved on so did Tom
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| Till there wasn’t a soul around who knew his given name
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| Some say he was a man who ran from himself
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| Some say he just played the hand he was dealt
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| Tougher than leather and quick as a cat
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| Till a young man one day is no longer that
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| And the dreams of those around him sink to the quick
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| When he slows just enough for them to figure the trick
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| Came a day in december the steely winds did blow
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| Into that ring a man Tom Dixon did know
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| Was himself without the bottle and the dream held fast
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| He took Tom’s dream with him and he never looked back
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| So Tom rolled around in that bottle for a couple of years
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| Till he was put in the ground by his own fears
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| Now all that is left is the story I’ve told
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| And the dream that still waits to unfold for
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| Tiger Tom Dixon |