I lost a woman, found some booze;
I must have caught them river blues.
Pennies flush like diamonds–
no money gives a man the blues.
I drunk whiskey on a Sunday.
My world got made from blacks and blues.
I've walked down all of Dylan's roads,
and all of them are paved in blue.
I've seen a sweet girl of sixteen;
she crawled the streets. Her eyes were blue.
Oh Saxophone, sing that Beale song;
sing me those dirty, main streets blues.
Graceland's phantoms called out my name –
the King's white home in the land of blues.
And after all of this, Bard, why?
Why do you still got them blues?