| Folks, I’m goin' down to St. James Infirmary
|
| See my baby there;
|
| She’s stretched out on a long, white table
|
| She’s so sweet, so cold, so fair
|
| Let it go, let it go, god bless her
|
| Wherever she may be
|
| She will search this wide world over
|
| But she’ll never find another sweet man like me
|
| When I die, bury me in my straight-leg britches
|
| Put on a box-back coat and a Stetson hat
|
| Put a twenty-dollar gold piece on my watch chain
|
| So you can let all the boys know I died standing pat
|
| An' give me six crap shooting pall bearers
|
| Let a chorus girl sing me a song
|
| Put a red hot jazz band at the top of my head
|
| So we can raise Hallelujah as we go along
|
| Folks, now that you have heard my story
|
| Say, boy, hand me another shot of that booze;
|
| If anyone should ask you
|
| You just tell 'em I’ve got those St. James Infirmary blues |