| Squinting from blinding rays of the Sun, deep in the heart of July
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| There to perform for children of corn, whose crops stood well Twelve foot high
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| Three knaves remained to the end of the day, we refused their vile entreats
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| Standing our ground, we played for the ears between the harvester’s teeth
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| Great Plains, hardcore scenes
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| May not be the biggest but, lord, they’re mean
|
| And though my mind has been shot to hell
|
| The details of that night I remember well
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| Gravel and locust, they swore to rope us
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| We did our best to steer straight
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| Trailer and hitch, straight into the ditch
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| Praying to Jesus and the holy saints
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| Despite the violence, sometimes I look back
|
| A nostalgia begins to take hold
|
| Wisdom of sorts is found in due course
|
| In the rows of silver and gold
|
| Great Plains, hardcore scenes
|
| May not be the biggest but, lord, they’re mean
|
| And though my mind has been shot to hell
|
| The details of that night I remember well
|
| Gimme the keys, they can keep the guarantee
|
| Gimme the keys, and get the hell out of dodge
|
| Hey man, we don’t got your, we don’t got your SM-57
|
| Look dude, why don’t you try some old-fashioned PMA
|
| Through bloody butchers, we ran for hours
|
| Then hours grew into years
|
| Stalked by the fury of John Brown’s eyes
|
| And still the storm hasn’t cleared
|
| Despite the mileage, sometimes I look back
|
| A nostalgia begins to take hold
|
| Wisdom of sorts is found, of course, in rows of silver and gold
|
| Great Plains, hardcore scenes
|
| May not be the biggest but, lord, they’re mean
|
| And though my mind has been shot to hell
|
| The details of that night I remember well
|
| Gimme the keys, they can keep the guarantee
|
| Gimme the keys, and get the hell out of dodge |