| He did not seem much like a man with a problem
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| He was small he was quiet he dressed neat and shaved
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| His job was five days in a brick making plant
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| And he drank a few beers on his other two days
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| His music was country, his faith was in Jesus
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| In fact he had pictures of Christ in his house
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| He never once questioned his daily existence
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| Nor wondered a lot what his life was about
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| He was fond of his pistol and he cleaned it too often
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| He’d go down by the river shoot driftwood all day
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| Stare out the window and sip on the cold beer
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| Sometimes he was happy like children who play
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| And some Saturday morning he came to my father
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| And said Virgil would you cut my hair for me please
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| And my father was handy with razors and scissors
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| Sometimes he cut hair with the guys on our street
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| As small boys would do I sat watchin' my father
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| Dad kidded him some bout his jealous wife
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| The man thanked my father and he offered to pay him
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| Went back to his house and he took his own life |