| She was a flower for the takin'
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| Her beauty cut just like a knife
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| He was a banker from Macon
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| Swore he’d love her all his life
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| Bought her a mansion on a mountain
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| With a formal garden and a lot a land
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| But paradise became her prison
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| That Georgia banker was a jealous man
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| Every time he’d talk about her
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| You could see the fire in his eyes
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| He’d say
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| I would walk through Hell on Sunday
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| To keep my Rose in Paradise
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| He hired a man to tend the garden
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| Keep an eye on her while he was gone
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| Some say they ran away together
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| Some say that gardener left alone
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| Now the banker is an old man
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| That mansion’s crum-ble-ing down
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| He sits all day and stares at the garden
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| Not a trace of her was ever found
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| Every time he talks about her
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| You can see the fire in his eyes
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| He’d say, «I would walk through Hell on Sunday
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| To keep my Rose in Paradise
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| Now there’s a rose out in the garden
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| Its beauty cuts just like a knife
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| They say that it even grows in the winter time
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| And blooms in the dead of the night |