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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, see how your week has gone |
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And tear into old |
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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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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 |
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One cut on my forehead one on my chin |
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On the hard old floor with nothin' to cover up with |
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You got me real good, girl, |
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I must admit |
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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, begging them both just to send me off to hell |
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But the boss man don't want no excuses |
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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 gotLast night |
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I slept with my boots on again |
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One cut on my forehead one on my chin |
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On the hard old floor with nothin' to cover up with |
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You got me real good, girl, |
|
I must admit |
|
Pack purty mean punch for such a pretty little dish |
|
And it's a shame to know most folks don't ever know love like this |
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It's a shame to know most folks don't ever know love like this |
