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The Devil’s in the details,
And your reverend’s into retail.
Your soul’s alone in this world of stone, you’ll find.
So what can you do,
You weary Wandering Jew?
Well, every dirt road leads to the South for ya this time.
Yeah, they all lead home.
But not the ramshackle tracks down Sheehan Bridge Road.
Don’t go pokin’ down that crooked Old Spur Line.
Yeah, tread ye not down the dirty rotten Old Spur Line.

Two railroads diverged in a yellow wildwood.
It’s raining meat, poppin’ dents in your hood.
It’s a mortal coil of blackjack vines.
Blurred around the edges hangs a red-soaked sky.
Dry-rotted, woodenteeth-like ties
Suckin’ up the muck in the trenches down the side.
Tread ye not down the dirty rotten Old Spur Line.

Hear the greasy, greasy grandma
Bowin’ on a bonesaw.
She says “Do as thou wilt shall be the whole of my law.”
She crosses her “I”‘s…
And she dots her teas.
She’ll poke ya with a stick while yer swingin’ in the breeze.
Well, ya heard what she said.
Ya got rocks in your head?
And her banjo’s tuned to f#DEAD.
Don’t go pokin’ down the crooked Old Spur Line.

See po’ ‘Rithmetic, the crippled dog run.
He puts down three and he carries the one.
And Deacon Snitch paintin’ pants on the thighs
Of the little naked pigs on a barbeque sign.
People ain’t right in the head down there.
Do a quick about face for ye best beware.
Tread ye not down the crooked Old Spur Line.

Trek down the track and it’s at your own peril.
The fields are all fallow and the beasts are all feral.
Dead cows in the boughs of the Live Oak trees,
Left there to rot when the water recedes.
No progress is made and the buildings tumble down.
And the only thing that grows are the gullies all around.
Don’t go pokin’ down the crooked Old Spur Line

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