E’er since Miss Susan Johnson lost her Jockey, Lee, there has been much excitement, more to be. You can hear her moaning night and morn.
Wonder where my Easy Rider’s gone? Cablegrams come of sympathy
Telegrams go of inquiry. Letters come from down in “Bam” and every where that Uncle Sam has even a rural delivery. All day the phone rings but it’s not for me. At last good tidings fill our hearts with glee. This message comes from Tennessee.
Dear Sue, your Easy Rider struck his burg today. On a southbound rattler side door Pullman car. Seen him here, an’ he was on the hog. (Spoken:) The smoke was broke, no joke, not a jitney on him.
Easy rider’s gotta stay away, so he had to vamp it but the hike ain’t far. He’s gone where the Southern cross’ the Yellow Dog.
I know the Yellow Dog district like a book, in deed I know the route that Rider took. Every cross tie bayou, burg and bog. Way down wherer the Southern cross the Dog. Money don’t Zactly grow on trees, on cotton stalks it grows with ease. No race horse, race track, no grand stand is like Old Beck an’ Buck shot land. Down where the Southern cross’ the Dog. Every kitchen there is a cabaret. Down there the boil-weevil works while the farmers play, this Yellow Dog Blues the live long day.
Dear Sue, your Easy Rider struck his burg today. On a southbound rattler side door Pullman car. Seen him here, an’ he was on the hog. (Spoken:) The smoke was broke, no joke, not a jitney on him.
Easy rider’s gotta stay away, so he had to vamp it but the hike ain’t far. He’s gone where the Southern cross’ the Yellow Dog….
Copyright 1999, Hal Leonard Corp.
