Come to my house an we'll pick bones
Their hands outside ready with stones
Come to my yard
I got whiskey an chairs
We'll sit on the porch
As the good men stare
You ain't never spoke true
I shake an angry fist at you
You are not needed here
To help me feel low down
I'm doin' it fine all on my own
I hear you cryin' from cradle to coffin
An for you there'll be no stoppin'
I see you lyin' in, in a pine box
With bitter words, That's how the boy talks