Luyện nghe bài hát Coot Marseilles Blues

{This story was told to me by Clover
At the 1971 Jockey Convention
I told Jerry I's write a song about it
My Hillman gonna play 'The Cigarette Paper And The Comb'
it}

Coot was an old black man
From Mississippi way
He worked out in the white yard
And he loved to sing and

Ol' Coot worked hard, God rest his
He never was to roam
His band was an old guitar
A cigarette and a comb

Now ol' Coot had one
That he would sing his long days were put in
ain't nobody knows that song now
'Cause I reckon that it died him

His songs made up 'o dry bones
From pain and sweat and
And 'Lordy Lordy Lordy'
Was all you'd hear

Now on ol' Coot didn't work much
'Cepten he built a fire in the
And when he get he'd mosey on down
And sit by the gravel

He'd hum that song as he along
With the look in his eyes
And he sit by the road all day
Watched them Ford cars go by

Now on Saturday night the white folks
And ol' Coot he'd pick and
He had an old RC bottle
That he'd slide up and down strings

Now didn't care much for lyrics
He just made 'em up as he along
And I wish they had a tape back then
'Cause I'd sure love to hear song

Well his clothes were old and his hair was
And hard work had bent his
His songs were never
By statuettes or

His were all about the working man
And never owned a tie
The thing he ever really had to do
Was die

Now ol' Coot's gone and I'm wrong
To bring it all again
But I his friends down in Mississippi
thought a lot of him

So rock on Coot and your rest
Your long day's work is
And if got Fords up in Heaven, sir
I sure hope driving one

Lordy Lordy Lordy Lord
Lordy Lordy Lordy Lord