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B E F#m B
Well I came to Chicago in 1869.
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And I took me a place in Connely's patch.
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Started on the railroad working the UP line and
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walking those endless miles of track.
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Laying down those crossties and banging on the steel
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in the cold wind and rain.
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From Palmer House, down to Marshall Fields,
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oh every day was just the same.
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But at the end of the day,
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we'd all wait for the horn to blow.
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Then we'd make our way
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down to the bars on Whiskey Row.
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E A F#m B
Over in the stockyards the packers are winding down,
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they're all waiting for the closing sign.
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They'll rush the front gates they'll storm the town,
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and we'll take their seats upon the line.
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With their glasses on the counter, their feet upon the rail.
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a friendly smile and hello.
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All the laughing getting louder with every passing tale,
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those golden days on Whiskey Row.
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And at the end of the day,
A B E
we'd all wait for the horn to blow.
A B E A
Then we'd make our way
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down to the bars on Whiskey Row.
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E F#m
Now Palmer House has fallen.
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The cars are off the tracks,
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and there ain't no more of Courthouse Square.
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Nothing is left standing over at Connelys Patch
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since that mighty fire tore through there.
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Oh, but some day soon she'll rise up to the sky,
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Over the rivers, flames and smoke.
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And she'll keep a lookout with a mothers eye,
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over her boys on Whiskey Row,
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And at the end of the day,
A B E
we'd all wait for the horn to blow.
A B E A
Then we'd make our way
F#m B E
down to the bars on Whiskey Row.
F#m B E
down to the bars on Whiskey Row.