| Down in the country where I was born,
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| We’d go to church ev’ry Sunday mornin',
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| Then in the evening the lights would fade,
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| These are the words that my mama said:
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| «Children I hope you sleep tight,
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| And don’t let the bedbugs bite,
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| If you should die before you wake,
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| Pray good God your soul will take.»
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| (Don't let the bedbugs bite ya,
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| Don’t let the bedbugs bite ya,
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| Don’t let the bedbugs bite ya.)
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| Preacher would tell us that the lord was good,
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| All us little children should knock on wood,
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| Preacher would tell us 'bout the angels and saints,
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| Grandfather taught us 'bout the spooks and,
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| He said:
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| «(Don't let the bedbugs bite ya,
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| Don’t let the bedbugs bite ya,
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| Don’t let the bedbugs bite ya.)»
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| Then I’d pull the covers up over my head,
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| Stop thinkin' 'bout the things underneath the bed,
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| Thunder and the lightnin' begin to boom,
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| Somebody’s knockin', but nobody’s home.
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| (Don't let the bedbugs bite ya,
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| Don’t let the bedbugs bite ya,
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| Don’t let the bedbugs bite ya,
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| Don’t let the bedbugs bite ya.) |