Well Of The Blues Lyrics

Amoeba man, he runs from hot, wraps up from the cold
Old evil man, he worries a lot 'bout how he's gonna save his soul
Easy man, maybe he like whiskey, silly girl, maybe she got caught
And old lazy bones, maybe he stays home, saw more than he sought

The well of the blues - oh, it never runs dry
It never gets full enough of whiskey and rye
The well of the blues...

Preacher man bad-mouths the bottle and Mama pours it down the drain
Old grandpa likes to keep it within reach, it eases his favorite pain
And all year long old teetotallers' songs would echo grandpa's fall But on the holidays everything's okay, even judges forget the laws
The well of the blues…

Well, there's natural-born winners and losers out lookin' for the old time thrill
They get the Indians' luck, the burnin' cup, stuck with a whiskey still
'til it fills the head and makes the bed spin like a wildcat drill
Borin' a hole down deep in your soul that only a bottle can fill

The well of the blues…

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