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Some say there's ghosts in the hills |
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And they're black as the coal |
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And voices they scream in the night |
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From the deep dark below |
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There was poor Ivy and Scratch |
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And friends too many to name |
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Who were caught in a thundering landslide |
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And there they'll remain |
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And I cry Daddy, oh Dad please don't go |
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But he won't be coming home no |
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And mother, dear mom don't you know |
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I'm feeling so old and alone |
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'Cause I'm the son next in line |
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For the black lung dyin' |
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And just a few come back |
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From the Rocky Mountain mines |
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We're much too poor to escape |
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The weight of the earth |
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In tunnels and dust and fear |
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We will measure our worth |
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Here's our bones for the soil |
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Our blood for the land |
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Our souls for sweet Jesus |
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Our bodies be damned |
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And I cry. . . |
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Well sometimes I wonder |
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Where my Daddy's gone |
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But I know he's gone to the wilderness |
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And he ain't comin' home |
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Then sometimes I get to wondering |
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When it'll be my turn to lie down |
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In that cold dark place, Lord |
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Down under the ground |
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(Traditional) |
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It's said the mark of Cain |
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Is on the miners head |
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And it don't wash with lye soap |
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'Til he's good and he's dead |
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I saw my Daddy wave |
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From the top of the hill |
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He said Come along, son |
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I say Soon I will |