| Tossed and turned the night before in some old motel
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| Subconsciously recallin' some old sinful thing I’d done
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| My buddy drove the car and those big coal trucks shook us up
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| As we drove on into Hyden in the early morning sun
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| Past the hound dogs and some domineckered chickens
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| Temporary-lookin' houses with their lean and bashful kids
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| Every hundred yards a sign proclaimed
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| That Christ was coming soon
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| And I thought, «Well, man, he’d sure be disappointed if he did.»
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| On the way we talked about the 40 miners
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| Of the 39 who died and one who lived to tell the tale
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| We stopped for beans and cornbread at the Ed & Lois Cafe
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| Then went to see the sherrif at the Leslie County Jail
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| They took us to the scene of that disaster
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| I was so surprised to not find any sign of death at all
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| Just another country hillside with some mudholes and some junk
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| The mines were deadly silent like a rathole in the wall
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| «It was just like being right inside of a shotgun.»
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| The old man coughed and lit a cigarette that he had rolled
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| Back in town I bought a heavy jacket from a store
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| It was sunny down in Hyden but somehow the town was cold
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| The old man introduced the undertaker
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| Who seemed refreshed despite the kind of work I knew he did
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| We talked about the pretty lady from the Grand Ole Opry
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| An' we talked about the money she was raisin' for the kids
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| Well, I guess the old man thought we were reporters
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| He kept reminding me of how his simple name was spelled
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| Some lady said, «They worth more money now than when they’s a-livin'. |
| «And I’ll leave it there cause I suppose she told it pretty well |