She lived on the curve in the road
In an old tar paper shack.
On the south side of the town
On the wrong side of the tracks.
Sometimes on the way into town
We'd say, "Mama can we stop and give her a ride?"
Sometimes we did
But her hands flew from her side.
Down the long dirt road
Past the Parson's place.
That old blue car
We used to race.
Little country store with a sign tacked to the side.
Said 'NO L-O-I-T-E-R-I-N-G ALLOWED.'
Underneath that sign always congregated...
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