| Down in the scrub oak country
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| To the southeast Texas Gulf
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| There used to ride a brakeman
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| A brakeman double tough
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| He worked the town of Kilgore
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| And Longview twelve miles down
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| And the travellers all said
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| Little East Texas Red
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| He was the meanest bull around
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| If you rode by night or the broad daylight
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| In the wintery wind or the sun
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| You would always see little East Texas Red
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| Just a sportin' his smooth-runnin gun
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| And the tale got switched down the stems and mains
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| And everybody said
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| That the meanest bull
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| On them shiney irons
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| Was that little East Texas Red
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| It was on a cold and a windy morn'
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| It was along towards nine or ten
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| A couple of boys on the hunt of a job
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| They stood that blizzardy wind
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| Hungry and cold they knocked on the doors
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| Of the workin' people around
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| For a piece of meat
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| And a carrot or spud just a boil of stew around
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| East Texas Red come down the line
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| And he swung off that old number two
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| He kicked their bucket over a bush
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| And he dumped out all of their stew
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| The travellers said, «Little East Texas Red
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| You better get your business straight
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| Cause you’re gonna ride
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| Your little black train just one year from today.»
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| Well Red he laughed and he climbed the bank
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| And he swung on the side of a wheeler
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| The boys caught a tanker to Seminole
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| Then west to Amarillo
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| They caught them a job of oil-field work
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| And followed a pipeline down
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| It took them lots of places
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| Before that year
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| Had rolled around
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| Then on a cold and windy day
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| They caught them a Gulf-bound train
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| They shivered and shook with the dough in their clothes
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| To the scrub oak flats again
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| With their warm suits of clothes and overcoats
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| They walked into a store
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| They paid that man
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| For some meat and stuff
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| Just a boil of stew once more
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| The ties they tracked down that cinder dump
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| And they come to the same old spot
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| Where East Texas Red just a year ago
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| Had dumped their last stew pot
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| Well, the smoke of their fire went higher and higher
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| And Red come down the line
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| With his head tucked low in the wintery wind
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| He waved old number nine
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| He walked on down through the jungle yard
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| And he came to the same old spot
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| And there was the same two men again
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| Around that same stew pot
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| Red went to his kness and he hollered
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| «Please, don’t pull your trigger on me
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| I did not get my business straight.»
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| But he did not get his say
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| A gun wheeled out of an overcoat
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| And it played that old one two
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| And Red was dead when the other two men
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| Sat down to eat their stew |