| Now being six years old
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| I had seen some trains before
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| So it’s hard to figure out
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| What I’m at the depot for
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| Trains are big and black and smoking
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| Steam screaming at the wheels
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| And bigger than anything they is
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| At least that’s the way she feels
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| Trains are big and black and smoking
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| Louder in July four
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| But everybody’s actin' like
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| This might be something more
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| Than just picking up the mail
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| Or the soldiers from the war
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| This is something that even old man
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| Wileman never seen before
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| And it’s late afternoon
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| On a hot Texas day
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| Something strange is going on
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| And we’s all in the way
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| Well there’s fifty or sixty people
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| Just sitting on their cars
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| And the old men left their dominos
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| And they come down from the bars
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| And everybody’s checking
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| Old Jack Kittrel check his watch
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| And us kids put our ears
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| To the rails to hear 'em pop
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| So we already knowed it
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| When I finally said, «Train time»
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| You’d a-thought that Jesus Christ
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| His-self was rolling down the line
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| Because things got real quiet
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| Momma jerked me back
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| But not before I’d got the chance
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| To lay a nickel on the track
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| Look out here she comes, she’s coming
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| Look out there she goes, she’s gone
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| Screaming straight through Texas
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| Like a mad dog Cyclone
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| Big, red, and silver
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| She don’t make no smoke
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| She’s a fast-rollin' streamline
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| Come to show the folks
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| Lord, she never even stopped
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| But She left fifty or sixty people
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| Still sitting on their cars
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| They’re wondering what it’s coming to
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| And how it got this far
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| Oh, but me I got a nickel
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| Smashed flatter than a dime
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| By a mad dog, runaway
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| Red-silver streamline |