|
Folks, I'm goin' down to St. James Infirmary, |
|
See my baby there; |
|
She's stretched out on a long, white table, |
|
She's so sweet, so cold, so fair. |
|
Let her go, let her go, God bless her, |
|
Wherever she may be, |
|
She will search this wide world over, |
|
But she'll never find another sweet man like me. |
|
Now, when I die, bury me in my straight-leg britches, |
|
Put on a box-back coat and a stetson hat, |
|
Put a twenty-dollar gold piece on my watch chain, |
|
So you can let all the boys know I died standing pat. |
|
An' give me six crap shooting pall bearers, |
|
Let a chorus girl sing me a song. |
|
Put a red hot jazz band at the top of my head |
|
So we can raise Hallelujah as we go along. |
|
Folks, now that you have heard my story, |
|
Say, boy, hand me another shot of that booze; |
|
If anyone should ask you, |
|
Tell 'em I've got those St. James Infirmary blues. |
