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A white man, in a white suit, an a white horse rides into town off that dusty ol' trail. |
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He rides into town, not just any town. I'm talking d-e-a-de-n-d |
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with integrity and his heart on his sleeve. |
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He hopes they are going to buy what he believes. |
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He offers every fool and every friend. |
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that's a population of one hundred and three. |
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a cure to their unchristian like ways. |
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with a simple process of "drawing out" |
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through the hole in the top of the skull |
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then a snip, a cut and a couple of knots tied off. |
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He offers to make them as good as new. |
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"Better than you're used to" |
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Sadly. The locals didn't take kindly to this well intentioned man |
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They don't want a hand out form him. |
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Instead, they take offense to a man coming into their town looking to tell right from wrong. |
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That's when the situation goes from bad to worse. |
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As they string him up at the town hall. |
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It appears our smart-ass should have kept along that dusty, lonely trail. |
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They tell him "The hands are the eyelids of the soul." |