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Seems like ten years ago |
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Though today my mind is slow |
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Me and Mickey Craig |
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Were running west from Idaho |
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Robbed a bank to get some bread |
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Seems like fifteen men lay dead |
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In a path that led us straight |
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To Santa Rosa |
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Now and then ol' Mick'd say |
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Boy, at home you should of stayed |
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Than to follow me and learn the life |
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Of looking back |
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But he'd spit and slap his side |
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Just to see if he's alive |
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Then he'd sing his banjo song |
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Of Santa Rosa |
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He said, whoa |
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Singing, oh, Santa Rosa |
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Whoa, high and low |
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Then one day, sang ol' Craig |
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I'll be free to go my way |
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And be standing by the bay |
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At Santa Rosa |
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Now one time late at night |
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Mickey lit no fire light |
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'Cause he feared the posse close behind |
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Might flush us out |
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But he picked a bit 'fore sleep |
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To the tune of Cripple Creek |
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He was murdered by a man |
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From Santa Rosa, they shot him |
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He said, whoa |
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Singing, oh, Santa Rosa |
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Whoa, high and low |
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'Til I come once again |
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With my banjo pickin' friend |
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We'll be, oh, high and low |
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In Santa Rosa |