| Ol' mornin' crimson dawn
|
| There’s a creek now on the floor
|
| Do the paupers sleep tonight?
|
| Do the children read or write?
|
| There’s a pot a brewin'
|
| A beat-up cup for fillin'
|
| Now the paper is sayin'
|
| That are polls are shiftin'
|
| Our train’s ahead
|
| And its patrons have been so mislead
|
| Judges play gypsy roles
|
| Cherry pickin' while the gentleman falls, oh, oh
|
| Achin' prophets scurry south
|
| Tangled up in all their vows
|
| They can hear us from the street
|
| It’s a shame we can’t retreat
|
| You see the road is seasoned
|
| With the bows of treason
|
| Painted wagons are gleamin'
|
| While the dust is settlin'
|
| Our train’s ahead
|
| And its patrons have been so mislead
|
| Judges play gypsy roles
|
| Cherry pickin' while the gentleman falls, oh, oh
|
| Cherry pickin' while the gentleman falls, oh, oh
|
| There’s a pot a brewin' |