| Well he came home from the war
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| with a party in his head
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| and modified Brougham DeVille
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| and a pair of legs that opened up like butterfly wings
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| and a mad dog that wouldn’t
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| sit still
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| he went and took up with a Salvation Army
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| Band girl
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| who played dirty water
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| on a swordfishtrombone
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| he went to sleep at the bottom of Tenkiller lake
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| and he said gee, but it’s
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| great to be home.
|
| Well he came home from the war
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| with a party in his head
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| and an idea for a fireworks display
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| and he knew that he’d be ready with
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| a stainless steel machete
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| and a half a pint of Ballentine’s
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| each day
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| and he holed up in room above a hardware store
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| cryin’nothing there but Hollywood tears
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| and he put a spell on some
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| poor little Crutchfield girl
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| and stayed like that for 27 years
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| Well he packed up all his
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| expectations he lit out for California
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| with a flyswatter banjo on his knee
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| with a lucky tiger in his angel hair
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| and benzedrine for getting there
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| they found him in a eucalyptus tree
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| lieutenant got him a canary bird
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| and shaked her head with every word
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| and Chesterfielded moonbeams in a song
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| and he got 20 years for lovin’her
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| from some Oklahoma governor
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| said everything this Doughboy
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| does is wrong
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| Now some say he’s doing
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| the obituary mambo
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| and some say he’s hanging on the wall
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| perhaps this yarn’s the only thing
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| that holds this man together
|
| some say he was never here at all
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| Some say they saw him down in Birmingham, sleeping in a boxcar going by and if you think that you can tell a bigger tale
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| I swear to God you’d have to tell a lie… |