| On Fourth Street in Louisville in 1978
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| Stranded in a honky-tonk, somewhere 'tween dates
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| There was a little band playin' as I sipped my beer
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| But I never thought that I’d hear what I’d hear
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| There was a young man pickin' electric guitar
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| Smokin' and a snippin', an' a learnin' how to be a star
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| He had a big blue bandanna tied around his head
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| A laid-back bass and a drummer named Red
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| Well, his hair was cut long in the fashion of the time
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| Sandpaper vocal but he milked every line
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| His fingers like lightnin' on the guitar that he played
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| He did lay down Sally and Hank didn’t do it this way
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| Well, I sat there and listened for over an hour
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| And the closest thing to country was a rockin' wildwood flower
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| And I got that feelin' that I had been there before
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| But I knew I had never been through that door
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| Well, the jukebox was turned on and the band took a break
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| I made my way up front to Howdy and Shake
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| I said, «Son, I like your music and I kinda like your style»
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| But it seemed to me that I had seen that smile
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| While he stood there for a moment
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| Then he laughed and he slapped his knee
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| He said, «You are one man I’ve wanted to see»
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| He said, «I know you, you story-tellin' son of a gun»
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| And you know me I’m Clayton Delaneys son |