| Well I used to wake the mornin'
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| Before the rooster crowed
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| Searchin' for soda bottles
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| To get myself some dough
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| Brought 'em down to the corner
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| Down to the country store
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| Cash 'em in and give my money
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| To a man named Curtis Loew
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| Old Curt was a black man
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| With white, curly hair
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| When he had a fifth of wine
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| He did not have a care
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| He used to own an old Dobro
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| Used to play it across his knee
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| I’d give old Curt my money
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| He’d play all day for me
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| Play me a song
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| Curtis Loew, Curtis Loew
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| Well I got your drinkin' money
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| Tune up your Dobro
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| People said he was useless
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| Them people all were fools
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| Cause Curtis Loew was the finest picker
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| To ever play the blues
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| He looked to be sixty
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| And maybe I was ten
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| Mama used to whoop me
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| But I’d go see him again
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| I’d clap my hands stomp my feet
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| Try to stay in time
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| He’d play me a song or two
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| Then take another drink of wine
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| Play me a song
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| Curtis Loew, Curtis Loew
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| Well I got your drinkin' money
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| Tune up your Dobro
|
| People said he was useless
|
| Them people all were fools
|
| Cause Curtis Loew was the finest picker
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| To ever play the blues
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| Yes, sir
|
| On the day old Curtis died
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| Nobody came to pray
|
| Ol' preacher said some words
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| And they chucked him in the clay
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| Well he lived a lifetime
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| Playin' the black man’s blues
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| And on the day he lost his life
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| That’s all he had to lose
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| Play me a song
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| Curtis Loew, hey Curtis Loew
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| I wish that you was here
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| So everyone would know
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| People said he was useless
|
| Them people all are fools
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| 'Cause Curtis you’re the finest picker
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| To ever play the blues |