| I was born in Oklahoma, 1931
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| Outside the town of Spavinaw
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| Where the red dust clouds the sun
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| And I ran beneath your diamond skies
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| And I drank your waves of grain
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| My name is Mickey Mantle, boys
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| And baseball is my game
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| My father’s name was «Mutt», boy
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| And he worked down in the mines
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| He pitched to me in the evening
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| At least a thousand times
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| A thousand times again, in my nightmare and my dreams
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| You’re going to live in the house that
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| Ruth built, kid
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| You’re going to make that Yankee team
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| Sure enough, the Yankee scout comes drivin',
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| Right down route 66
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| He’d have never come to
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| Spavinaw class D ball in the sticks,
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| But I happened to be playing in an old wood ball park
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| Way out on the mother road
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| That Yankee scout he signed me and I went up to the the show
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| Strike 1, that was the drinkin'
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| Strike 2, there go the knees
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| Then my old man died in Denver
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| Some type of lung disease
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| When God starts throwing change ups
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| You can’t swing with fame or wealth
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| If I’d known I’s going to live this long
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| I’d have taken care of myself.
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| I don’t miss the lights of Times Square
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| I don’t miss Toots Shore’s bar
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| I miss my old man pitchin' baseball
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| Near the shed in our backyard
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| I wish that he were still alive
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| To see these trophies on my shelf
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| If I’d known I was going to live this long
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| I’d have taken better care of myself
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| I was born in Oklahoma,
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| 1931 Outside the town of Spavinaw
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| Where the red dust clouds the sun |