| Well I quit my job down at the carwash
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| Left my mother a goodbye note
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| By sundown I left Kingston with my guitar under my coat
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| Hitchiked all the way down to Memphis
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| Got a room at the YMCA
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| For the next three weeks went hunting at nights
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| Just looking for a place to play
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| Well I thought my picking would set them on fire
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| But nobody wanted to hire a guitarman
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| Well I nearly starved to death down in Memphis
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| I run out of money and luck
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| So I bummed me a ride down to Mecon, Georgia
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| On an overloaded poultry truck
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| Thumbed on down to Panama City
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| Started picking at some of them all night bars
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| Hoping I could make myself a dollar making music on my guitar
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| Got the same old story the moment I’d appear
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| There ain’t room around here for a guitarman
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| Don’t need a guitarman son
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| So I slept in the hobo jungles
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| I roamed thousand miles of track
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| Till I find myself in Mobile, Alabama
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| At a club they call Big Jacks
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| A little four piece band was jamming
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| So I took my guitar and I sat in
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| I showed em what a band would sound like
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| With a swinging little guitarman
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| Show em son
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| If you ever take a trip down to the ocean
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| Find yourself down around Mobile
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| Make it on out to a club called Jacks
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| If you got a little time to kill
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| Just follow that crowd of people
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| You’ll wind up out on his dance floor
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| Digging the finest little five piece group
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| Up and down the Gulf of Mexico
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| Guess who’s leading that five piece band
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| Wouldn’t you know it’s that swinging little guitarman
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| «he was a degenerates degenerate» |