Lord, I sure got the blues this morning.
Woke up with nothing beside me, but a pillow and a stain.
The gray clouds crowded around me,
And that drizzle became a pouring rain.
I feel so melancholy -
when I hear your name.
The sibilance of those syllables,
Triggers a recall, Pavlovian pain.
Music's like a wicked woman!
Fickle and sour as a pickle she can be.
Before you go dancing with that damsel,
You better check out the scars on me.
There's a reason or three,
they call me, call me, call me....
Mr. Meloncholy.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 3:43 AM UTC
Lord, I sure got the blues this morning.
Woke up with nothing beside me, but a pillow and a stain.
The gray clouds crowded around me,
And that drizzle became a pouring rain.
I feel so melancholy -
when I hear your name.
The sibilance of those syllables,
Triggers a recall, Pavlovian pain.
Music's like a wicked woman!
Fickle and sour as a pickle she can be.
Before you go dancing with that damsel,
You better check out the scars on me.
There's a reason or three,
they call me, call me, call me....
Mr. Meloncholy.