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My apologies to Johnny Cash. |
| A camp stove is a useful thing; when I cook, I'm an outdoors king. But my praise rises no higher for grillin' on an open fire. I fell into my own campfire. I fell down, down, down, while the smoke rose higher. And it burns, burns, burns . . . My own campfire. My own campfire. Oh, yes, I fell into my own campfire. I'm such a clown, clown, clown with my pants on fire. And it burns, burns, burns . . . That darn campfire. That darn campfire. The taste of meat is sweet but not from my own feet. I tripped up like a child. Now I yelp and run wild. I fell into my own campfire. I fell down, down, down, and my screams rose higher. And it burns, burns, burns . . . I am no liar. I am no liar. Oh, yes, I fell into my own campfire. Get me to town, town, town — it's the ER I desire. And it burns, burns, burns . . . That dang campfire. That dang campfire. And it burns, burns, burns . . . My own campfire. That darn campfire. My pants on fire. |