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I wrote my new song on a five dollar bill, |
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But I won't be able to sing it until, |
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I get hot on the trail for to pick up the track, |
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Of the dirty little thief and get my five bucks back. |
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I first got the five dollars from a Montana man, |
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When he come across the line with a pistol in his hand, |
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He said gimme all your money but I got to his first, |
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And I took his Colts too and the whole first verse. |
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You see you couldn't buy liquor in the States back then, |
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So we saddled up the ponies and we loaded up the gin, |
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Rode underneath the shadow of the grande Old Chief, |
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To git some northern Rocky Mountain kinda tax relief, |
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You couldn't count on the cattle when the market got down, |
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And the veterinary bills to the doctor in town, |
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Both kids needed shoes and they had to get fed, |
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And a big old bank lien was over my head. |
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They wouldn't stop talking about Canadian rye, |
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Bouquet and the palate and it's crisp and it's dry, |
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In a Seagrams bottle, tasted mighty top shelf, |
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I said "well, thank you very much, sir, I cooked it myself", |
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Of course, that didn't wash with the boys down south, |
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Judging by the stream of color coming out of their mouth, |
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Though I can't figure why, cuz from where I stood, |
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It got 'em just as damn drunk as any store bought would. |
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Well, he come stormin' cross the border with six or eight guys, |
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Some damn fool saw fit to deputize, |
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But there weren't no sheriff nor a marshall in sight, |
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I guess the lawman was up drinkin' whiskey all night, |
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He said gimme all your money but I got to his first, |
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And I took his Colts too and the whole third verse, |
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But he picked my back pocket, worked the five bucks loose, |
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I had tucked in behind a can o' Copenhagen snoose. |
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The dirty little double dealing, son-of-a-gun-of-a song stealin', chicken eatin' thief, |
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And get my five bucks back. |