Four ball tires on an old Impala, 17 degrees South Alabama.

Mama needs money and we're late for school, picking out the parts on a Bob Wills tune.

I got a scrambled egg sandwich and a Folgers can, daddy says I'll never work for the man.

I'll hold your head, I'll ease your mind, I'll sing you a lullaby, sit here by the fire.

Tomorrow's Sunday, come and rest your soul.

Let me be your good book, the stories all been told.

I'll hold your head.

Yeah, the world's gone crazy, can't save your sin, he shouldn't be driving in the shape he's in.

I see cold water in the Santa Bogue, I hear a Ford pick up on the old dirt road.

Mama's down a hill hurling peas in a pan, dandy's got a bucket and a hoe in his hand.

I'll hold your head, I'll ease your mind, let me sing you a lullaby, sit here by the fire.

Tomorrow's Sunday, come and rest your soul.

Let me be your good book, stories all been told.

I'll hold your head.

It ain't fair for a young 'un, all this hurting, battling the blues and the beer and the bourbon.

Come on, sissy, let's close the door, I don't want to hear the noise no more.

I'll hold your head, I'll ease your mind, let me sing you a lullaby, sit here by the fire.

Tomorrow's Sunday, come and rest your soul.

Let me be your good book, the stories all been told.

I'll hold your head, I'll ease your mind, let me sing you a lullaby, sit here by the fire.

Tomorrow's Sunday, come and rest your soul.

I'll be your good book, stories all been told.

I'll hold your head.

I'll hold your head.