Three months apart. Could have been brothers. Deep South, good times, charmed lives, different paths. The first-born kept his nose to the grindstone and Jesus in his heart. He shook more hands and climbed more ladders. The other one found rock'n'roll, or maybe rock'n'roll found him. He thought saints whispered in his ear and took good care of him.
They still do!
Does everybody live happily ever after?
Everything sounds like Song of the South mixed with A Hard Day's Night.
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