| He was nine years old when his folks left home
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| On a wagon headin' west
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| And his mom and dad knew he’d grow up bad
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| By the mark of the devil on his chest
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| Seventeen he turned up mean
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| He had already made his bid
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| He had a name in the fast gun game
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| And they called him the «Devil Kid»
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| Now the kid’s name grew and his gun did too
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| When an old ghost town appeared
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| Sittin' there in the marshall’s chair
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| Was the one they called «Grey Beard»
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| «Kid, you better quit while the quittin’s good
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| Cus there’s always one that’s bigger
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| There’ll be one guy with a faster eye
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| Who’s lightning on the trigger
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| Let me tell you, son, about a real fast gun
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| That every outlaw feared
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| He made his name in this killin' game
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| He’s the one they call «Grey Beard»
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| He had a drawin' hand like no other man
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| It was faster than the eye
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| And there were always plenty of kids about twenty
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| Just couldn’t wait to die
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| He was a fast gun
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| Lookin' to make a name
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| Quikin' was his virtue
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| Killin' was the game
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| So the kid said, «Tell me,
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| where is this man who never feared a gun?»
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| Grey Beard raised his head and said,
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| «Your looking at him, son.»
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| So the kid tried staring Grey Beard down
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| With eyes like ace up dice
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| And Grey Beard’s frown turned upside down
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| To a smile as cold as ice
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| So the Devil Kid reached for his gun
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| With a draw as fast as light
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| But he lost the game from a shot that came
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| From somewhere out of sight
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| And as the kid went down and he hit the ground
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| Thought he had lost his mind
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| He heard Grey Beard snicker
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| «I was even quicker before I went stone blind»
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| Fast gun
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| Lookin' to make a name
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| Quikin' was his virtue
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| He was killed at his game |