Tinker
Mason hated cities.
You just name any city and
Tinker'd hate it for you.
Now,
Tinker not only hated cities,
but if he got around somebody that even about liked a city,
well,
Tinker'd throw a rock at him.
And sometimes he'd hit him.
Well, anyway,
we all knew that something was wrong in
Tinker's head,
and we all figured that we ought
to do something for him
before he hurt somebody,
and we had to hang him.
So we took up this collection,
and since there wasn't no psychiatrist
in our part of the world,
well, we sent him to a fella named
Barton
Freud.
Now, like I told you,
Barton
Freud wasn't no psychiatrist,
but he was a chiropractor that did
a lot of heavy thinking.
Well,
Sir
Barton worked on
Tinker's head
for a couple of years,
and
Tinker stopped all that city hatin'.
He was a different man.
Fact is, he is so different,
when he come home one night,
his wife shot him for a trespasser.
It was a beautiful funeral,
and you'd never know
by the look on
Tinker's face
that he had ever been a city hater.
Go die, big city, go die, big town,
you gave me nothing, and that's what I found.
I shine shoes for pennies,
and I hunt easy pains
Cause I know tomorrow it's gonna
rain my blood
Gouda, big city,
Go die, big town, your pool halls are crooked,
your dice are all round.
Pick rags and soup lines
And I roll drums for change
Cause I know, tomorrow,
it's gonna rain, my blood