Custom, tradition, and the twang of steel guitars Strongly suggest I should embrace my station As the woman done wrong, Weeping quietly in some dark corner At the Come On Inn, Or, even better yet, Wailing in a full, tear-stained voice. Know this; I will not Patsy Cline for you, Any man or moral of the story, Nor will I indulge myself In some country-crossover measure of revenge. I will march into that bar, And play that song for whoever on the jukebox, Dancing without a trace of regret or malice And I will leave that old roadhouse In the same manner I will live The rest of my days here on earth; Head high, chin forward, shoulders straight Alone or accompanied As Iβand I aloneβsee fit.