| Way down in ol' Kentucky
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| There’s a fella mighty lucky
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| By the way he makes a guitar moan
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| Hangin' round, singin' round a country store
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| Pickin' like a chicken, pickin' up corn
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| And every gal in the county, gathers all around him
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| €~Cuz he’s got rhythm in his bones
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| Their feet start jumpin', do the shuffle and drag
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| Every time they hear the rhythm of the guitar rag
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| He gets a moanin' tone, he makes it grumble and groan
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| When he gets to pickin' and a-pluckin' the strings
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| He can make a deacon do the buck-and-wing
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| All the fat and skinny does a little shimmy
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| And their heads start to wiggle and wag
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| Their feet start jumpin', do the shuffle and drag
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| Every time they hear the rhythm of the guitar rag |