| Seen the arrow on the doorpost
|
| Saying, «This land is condemned
|
| All the way from New Orleans
|
| To Jerusalem»
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| I traveled through East Texas
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| Where many martyrs fell
|
| And I know no one can sing the blues
|
| Like Blind Willie McTell
|
| Well, I heard that hoot owl singing
|
| As they were taking down the tents
|
| The stars above the barren trees
|
| Were his only audience
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| Them charcoal gypsy maidens
|
| Can strut their feathers well
|
| But nobody can sing the blues
|
| Like Blind Willie McTell
|
| See them big plantations burning
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| Hear the cracking of the whips
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| Smell that sweet magnolia blooming
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| See the ghosts of slavery ships
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| I can hear them tribes a-moaning
|
| Hear that undertaker’s bell
|
| Nobody can sing the blues
|
| Like Blind Willie McTell
|
| There’s a woman by the river
|
| With some fine young handsome man
|
| He’s dressed up like a squire
|
| Bootlegged whiskey in his hand
|
| There’s a chain gang on the highway
|
| I can hear them rebels yell
|
| And I know no one can sing the blues
|
| Like Blind Willie McTell
|
| Well, God is in His heaven
|
| And we all want what’s His
|
| But power and greed and corruptible seed
|
| Seem to be all that there is
|
| I’m gazing out the window
|
| Of the St. James Hotel
|
| And I know no one can sing the blues
|
| Like Blind Willie McTell |