The blues are wet. Soaked in muddy river, cry and moan, hurrying and loving, wait and cry, ride. Wanna tell somebody, know they’re listening right, take my baby out for cherry sodas on a breezy Saturday night.
How long will these nightmares continue? Does guilt consume? What if they find him and trace my prints? Why did I kill him? Since when did you have a murderer’s instinct? After so many years of walking away and being pacific. Now you’re a murderer. You killed a man in New Orleans. Does anyone even care? Will he be missed? Hobo tried killing you, threatened you with a knife! for crying out loud! Dead.
Squeeze my lemon for a bird that whistles, down to Rosedale, away from my kind-hearted baby, tryna stay alive.
I I coulda turned twenty one in prison, But I hid the body fast
, The look in that hobo’s eye
pressed my foot down on the gas.
Mama wanted best and I let her down instead , and my baby don’t lie with me in a California king size bed. I never told dear mama but my baby knew the while. Now I’m in truckin down this lonesome road smokin without a smile.
Drinkin and thinkin of my baby in the arms of another man; well, that’ll make ya crazy. So look up at Ol Glory, and do the best ya can.