Old sawbones got some age on him, that’s why you show respect He’s long past his prime, his mind’s a derelict Another man with an open book, he laughs at your every move He’s reciting chosen verse of some Robert Johnson tune He’s singing:
Chorus: “Whoa, the sun has gone to burnin’ Whoa, and the creek has gone dry Whoa, black birds are circling Over the hills, where the dead folk lie” Sister runs the table, now she’s shaking a pile of bones Preaching to lose with the double-six cannot be condoned Old blues man feeling might poorly, that’s why he screams and howls You ain’t heard the slide guitar since the likes of Fred McDowell He’s playing:
Chorus repeat
Ne’er-do-well in the dark corner, raising anxiety Says the safest place in the world, is in-sanity Strangers come from the four corners, with passion and discontent They sing in harmony of the Reckoning Lament They’re singing:
Chorus repeat
