| Wise men say
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| That a poor mother’s child
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| Lives his life in vain
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| If he doesn’t visit lour
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| The house of pain
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| At the age of 4 my momma Don died
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| My daddy started in drinking
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| And he left me by
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| An orphanage doors said:
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| Get the rest of your life for thinking, now
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| At the age of 8
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| Thoughts filled my mind
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| I had to run had to run away
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| And I met a bomb by the name of Joe
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| And he told me I could stay, now
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| Now Joe said
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| Earn your key, boy!
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| Man’s gotta work for every meal
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| And Joe he told me how to rob load
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| He taught me how to steal
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| At age 13
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| I was a restless lad
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| And Joe said little drinking do you know harm
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| But by 15 years a drinking meant nothin'
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| Compared to this holes in my arm
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| Now I’m not a violent man
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| I can’t stand killing
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| Without reason to be done
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| But when my friend Joe started stealing my brandy
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| Shot him with a second hand gun
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| But people don’t know
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| What pain it is runnin'
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| So we gonna manner 30 cries with tears
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| But I’ve been livin' on crammers and sterno
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| Not under 15 years
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| My strength is gone
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| My eyes are closin'
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| It’s gettin' dark
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| And oh, so cold
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| But it’s nice and warm
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| In the place I’ll be going to
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| Will probably have me a shoveling coal, now
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| So let it now to be said
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| That a man ain’t believin'
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| That he spent his life in vain
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| 'Cause I spend 30 cold windy thirsty years
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| Inside the house of pain, now
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| Inside the house of pain
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| Inside the house of pain |