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She lived on the curve of the road |
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In an old tar-paper shack |
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On the south side of town |
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On the wrong side of the tracks |
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Sometimes on the way into town |
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We'd say 'Mama, can we stop and give her a ride?' |
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Sometimes we did, but her hands flew from her side |
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Wild eyed, crazy Mary |
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Down a long dirt road |
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Past the parson's place |
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An old blue car |
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We used to race |
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Little country store with a sign tacked to the side |
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Said ' No L-O-I-T-E-R-I-N-G allowed' |
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Underneath that sign always congregated quite a crowd |
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Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around |
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Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around |
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Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around |
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One night thunder cracked mercy backed outside my windowsill |
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Dreamed I was flying high above the trees, over the hills |
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Looked down into the house of Mary |
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Terrible tunnel, newspaper-covered walls |
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And Mary rising up above it all |
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Next morning on the way into town |
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Saw some skid marks, and followed them around |
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Over the curve, through the fields |
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Into the house of Mary |
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That which you fear the most, could meet you halfway |
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That which you fear the most, could meet you halfway |