| Harry Truman was born to play piano
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| That’s all he ever thought about
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| From the first time he touched those ivory keys
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| He never had a single doubt
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| Started playing for all the kin folks
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| Then in honky tonks and bars
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| Never once entertained the thought
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| Of playing a silly six string guitar
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| He was a piano player dog gone it, case closed
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| As he made his way to the gigs he’d play
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| He found the roads in an awful state
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| I’m not talking about Missouri per se
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| But the thoroughfares weren’t so great
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| He said «My name is Harry, Harry Truman»
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| Give 'em hell Harry give 'em hell
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| When the lights came on they rang your liberty bell
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| From Missouri to the White House
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| There’s one thing Harry knew
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| If you don’t learn to milk a cow
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| They’ll never ask you to
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| Because Harry’s mind was sharp and nimble
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| Those citizens were in luck
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| He strapped his family’s old upright Kimble
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| Up in the bed of his county truck
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| And every day on his lunch break
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| All that summer long
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| He’d park his ruck beside the lake
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| And play a medley of popular songs
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| The man sure knew how to string 'em together too
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| It’s funny, those roads Harry built
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| Led him to the White House
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| Under good old FDR
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| His piano now drew high class crowds
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| And he was smoking 50 cent cigars
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| Somewhere out in New Mexico
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| They were building atom bombs
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| But how on earth was Harry to know
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| What the hell was going on
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| See, he’d been left in the dark about an awful lot
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| Until that fateful day
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| When Harry and the rest of the nation got
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| The news that the President had passed away
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| And in an instant the music stopped and the weight
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| Of the world fell upon his shoulders
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| They sent him across the ocean to a summit
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| With Churchill and Stalin too
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| They posed for pictures out by the bar-b-que grill
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| Then they went inside for stew
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| Grumpy old Churchill was soon filled with doubt
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| Over all of Stalin’s demands
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| All Harry could seem to think about
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| Was Stalin’s tiny little hands
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| Couldn’t be much of a piano player, that’s for certain
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| Give 'em hell Harry…
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| Well he travelled wide and he travelled far
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| And when all was said and done
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| He went back home and opened up a piano bar
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| And called it «Jefferson's Favorite Son»
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| Quit shaving, grew his hair down past his shoulders
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| And wore a fringed John Lennon vest
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| Got snide remarks from some of the local elders
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| But he was loved by all the rest
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| Then every December as time marched on
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| He’d put on a red velvet suit
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| And perform his medley of holiday songs
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| To a 21 gun salute
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| Give 'em hell Harry Truman, Give 'em hell… |