| He’s got himself a homemade special
|
| You know his glass is full of sand
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| And it feels just like a jaybird
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| The way it fits into his hand
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| He rolled a blade up in his trick towel
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| They slap their hands against the wall
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| You never trip, you never stumble
|
| He’s walking spanish down the hall
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| Slip him a picture of our Jesus
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| Or give him a spoon to dig a hole
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| What all he done ain’t no one’s business
|
| But he’ll need blankets for the cold
|
| They dim the lights over on Broadway
|
| Even the king has bowed his head
|
| Every face looks right up at Mason
|
| He’s walking spanish down the hall
|
| Latella’s screeching for a blind pig
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| Punk Sander’s carved it out of wood
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| He never sang when he got hoodwinked
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| They tried it all but he never would
|
| Tomorrow morning there’ll be laundry
|
| But he’ll be somewhere else to hear the call
|
| Don’t say good bye he’s just leavin' early
|
| He’s walking spanish down the hall
|
| All St. Bartholomew said was whispered
|
| Into the ear of Blind Jack Dawes
|
| All the Baker told the machine
|
| Was that he never broke the law
|
| Go on and tip your hat up to the Pilate
|
| Take off your watch, your rings and all
|
| Even Jesus wanted just a little more time
|
| When he was walking spanish down the hall |