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It was six o' clock on Saturday |
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Henry Parsons died. |
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All of his good neighbors say |
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That man was never truly satisfied. |
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Preacherman never said no prayers |
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Church bells didn't ring |
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Everybody stood up and stared when some |
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Choirgirls jumped up and started to sing |
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He was baptized in every creek in Georgia. |
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Devil still called his name. |
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Every time he shot up drinking holy wine |
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He'd spill it all down his shirt in shame. |
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Had an auction on his from porch this morning |
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Sold off all his clothes |
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Sold off his four-poster bed |
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There were debutantes and old ladies breaking out in fights in the front row |
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Burned his house and spent the night |
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Smoke rose thick and black |
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Now Henry Parsons' got no place to stay |
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If he ever gets the nerve up to come back |
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He was baptized in every creek in Georgia. |
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Devil still called his name. |
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Every time he shot up drinking holy wine |
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He'd spill it all down his shirt in shame. |
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Everybody knows his name |
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They've heard about his reputation |
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They all came to see him buried down in the ground |
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What you might call a little bit of morbid fascination |
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What is everybody gonna say? |
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What is everybody gonna do? |
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Now that Henry Parsons' passed away |
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We got no one to lay our guilt on to |
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He was baptized in every creek in Georgia. |
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Devil still called his name. |
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Every time he shot up drinking holy wine |
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He'd spill it all down... |
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He was baptized in every creek in Georgia. |
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Devil still called his name. |
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Every time he shot up drinking holy wine |
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He'd spill it all down his shirt in shame. |
