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Coming home with a bottle, trying not to break the seal. |
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This Friday evening traffic's about enough to break a man's will. |
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And I can't wait to see you and see how your week has gone, and tear into |
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Old No.7 and make love till dawn. |
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But your Mama she'll be calling, if she ain't knocking on the door. |
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And it won't take me long to remember what |
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I brought that bottle home for. |
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And we'll all get to fighting, just like we always do. |
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And by Saturday morning, |
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I'll be singing these blues. |
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Last night |
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I slept with my boots on again, one cut on my forehead and one my chin, on the hard old floor with nothin to cover up with. |
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You got me real good, girl, and |
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I must admit, you pack purty mean punch for such a pretty little dish. |
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And it's a shame to know most folks don't ever know love like this. |
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Come Monday morning, |
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I'll be sore to a fare-thee-well. |
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Cussin' God and |
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America, wishing them both just to send me off to hell. |
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But the boss man don't want no excuses when it comes time to get on the clock. |
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And without that paycheck, |
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I'd lose the rest of what sweet love |
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I got. Last night |
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I slept with my boots on again, one cut on my forehead and one my chin, on the hard old floor with nothin to cover up with. |
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You got me real good, girl, and |
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I must admit, you pack purty mean punch for such a pretty little dish. |
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And it's a shame to know most folks don't ever know love like this. |
