This whiskey is washing it all away
All the night and day, all that spit and say
All that broken clay, pots in the garden growing weeds

She likes cabbage in her soup
I like whiskey in my belly
I hate to lay it out like that
But it will work out better
in the long haul

Place that stone for me old friend
Place that stone at my head
Bury me down where the grubs and weevils live
Stake down four corners of my soul
Fly me taut like a kite

The way it works out ain't work 'tall
Just a bunch of laying, smoking, drinking
Spelling tall tales out the back of a burlap sack
Cutting onions fine, fine
Cutting garlic rough, rough

Pick all those tomatoes little girl
Get that basket full
We'll be walking back to my little shack
Cut em up with salt, on my tomatoes
On my **** watermelon

These broken eyed blues are blue
They look at me like I looked at you
Left me knowing I knew not what to do
A fool for you, a fool for anyone you knew
Two plus two is two **** few
What's a poor man to do