| Made his way in life called pistol,
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| once they saw what he could do,
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| this little kid dribblin' all over town,
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| even in the movie theater, too.
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| Mom peaking out from the kitchen,
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| dad teaching him new tricks,
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| big brother was a natural too,
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| but this little kid his talent was just sick.
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| Will this be the first shot or could it be the last,
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| with millions sunk between them and bitter still,
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| he just had to ask, why am I so unhappy?
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| He came so close in high school,
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| and he just missed at LSU,
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| never a champion with the big boys
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| and fans can be frickle too.
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| He studied aliens and karate,
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| Eastern meditation brought no peace,
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| until that night on Lake Pontchartrain
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| when the pistol dropped to his knees
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| and he said
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| And when he died it was on the court,
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| right behind that old church,
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| his heart had changed but it still gave out
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| and JESUS came and picked him up with no more |