| Oh, he listens to the countdown every Sunday morning
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| From a cold solitary prison cell
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| And the music from his radio is like freedom down a dirt road
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| Makes that eight by ten a brighter hell
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| Before he started doing all the hard time that he’s doing
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| He was singing in them honky-tonks and dives
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| He dreamed of being somebody, now he’s number 37 405
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| Well she used to come and see him every other weekend
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| And bring him all the news from way back home
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| It’s been two birthdays since he’s kissed her
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| Five seconds since he’s missed her
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| Now the perfume on those letters ain’t that strong
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| He’s got too much time to think about the night he had too much to drink
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| And all his buddies, they begged him not to drive
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| Mr. Life of the Party is now number 37 405
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| Old judge on the bench said, «Son, your crime’s got consequences.»
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| It’s what he told him fifteen years ago
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| He took a life and that’s a fact, he’d give his own to give it back
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| Today’s the day he finally gets parole
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| He turns in them prison clothes, and stands there at the fork in the road
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| And mama prays and waits while he decides
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| And the angels close their eyes
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| Listens to the birds sing on a perfect autumn morning
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| Just down the road rings an old church bell |