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Usa A− / A+ para ajustar el tamañoTackle Box
It was two shades of brown and scratched up plasticIt held extra line, lures, hooks, and matchesWith his last name engraved in blackRight there by the handle on the topI'd slide it out of the back of his station wagonLug it down the bank with my arm draggin'I could hardly wait for himTo lift the lid on that tackle boxCause I'd sail with across the South PacificStand beside him on the bow of that battle shipSee him kiss the ground and thank the Good Lord JesusAnd watch him run to Grandma, cryin' on the dockHe opened up, every time he opened upThat ole tackle boxHe'd bait my hook and keep on tellin' storiesAbout nickel Cokes, girls, and sandlot gloriesPickup trucks and golden fieldsLong before this town knew blacktopI was almost ridin' with him shotgun down those dirt roadsTakin' turns on a jug of homemade shineAs he raced his buddies down through Mason HollerFillin' the sky with dust and kicked up rocksHe opened up every time he opened upThat ole tackle boxHe's been gone twenty years tomorrowBut I'm still holdin' on to one more wishThat God above would let be borrow GrandpaFor one more afternoon and one more fishCause I'd sail with across the South PacificStand beside him on the bow of that battle shipSee him kiss the ground and thank the Good Lord JesusAnd watch him run to Grandma, cryin' on the dockHe opened up, every time he opened upThat ole tackle boxEverything he loved, he kept locked upIn that ole tackle boxIt was two shades of brown and scratched up plastic
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