| They got a dance floor the size of Texas
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| They got a band seven nights a week
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| And if you don’t show up
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| Before the sun goes down
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| You ain’t going to find a seat
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| They got some grown up Texas ladies
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| They’re there to make their papas proud
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| They like their music, country
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| And they like their country loud
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| Well, every Saturday night
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| Before they turn down the lights
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| And the band starts picking hot
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| They start dancing on the tables
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| Dancing on the ceiling
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| Dancing in the parking lot
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| You start feeling it flow
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| From your head to your toe
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| You sure are glad you’ve come
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| Down to Little Joe and Big Bill’s
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| Dance hall and sugar hill, barbecue emporium
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| When it comes to southern cooking
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| They know what it’s all about
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| They got some barbecue ribs
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| And red beans and rice
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| Make your tongue snap your eyeballs out
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| And you don’t want to because no trouble
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| Buddy unless you’re willing to die
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| Because Big Bill will stomp a mud hole in you
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| And Little Joe will walk you dry
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| Well, there’s a cowboy’s dream in tight blue jeans
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| Swinging through the swinging doors
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| And there’s a long tall cutie, scooting booty
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| Out there on the floor
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| Well, I guess it’s time to get in line
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| Because the house is starting to hum
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| Well, every Saturday night
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| When they turn up the light
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| When it’s just about time to close
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| The fiddling man takes the bow in his hand
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| And start rocking San Antonia Rose
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| When you’re walking out
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| There ain’t no doubt
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| That you sure had a whole lot of fun |