Drunk-Sick Blues

It’s made a liar out of you,

A coward out of me,

When you’re ready for the truth,

Meet me at the willow tree.

 

With you, a glass holds

More than drunkard’s gold.

It’s years of hurt,

Pockets full of dirt,

And smelling of only booze

While you’re hummin’ drunk-sick blues.

 

I need your mind clean,

To keep your shaking hands

From pouring gasoline

Over our badlands.

 

With you, a glass holds

More than drunkards’ gold.

It’s years of hurt,

Pockets full of dirt,

And smelling of only booze

While you’re hummin’ drunk-sick blues.

 

Maybe we can still see

Who you should have been

If the bottle hadn’t come in,

You before the gin.

 

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