Bad luck's all I've ever had;
Going down this road feeling bad, Lord, Lord,
And I ain't gonna be treated this a-way.
Verse
This old jailer he sure is hard to please
Feed me on corn, bread and peas, Lord, Lord
And I ain't gonna be treated this a-way
Lord, she's left me with these lonesome jailhouse blues;
My sweet mama won't buy me no shoes, Lord, Lord,
And I ain't gonna be treated this a-way.
And these two-dollar shoes hurt my feet
The jailer won't give me enough to eat,
These two-dollar shoes they hurt my feet, Lord, Lord,
And I ain't gonna be treated this a-way
I'm going where the climate suits my clothes;
Lord, I'm going where these chilly winds never blow
I'm going where the climate suits my clothes, Lord, Lord,
And I ain't gonna be treated this a-way.
Verse
Yes, I'm going down the road feeling bad, Lord, Lord,
Lord, I'm going down the road feeling bad,
Bad luck is all I've ever had,
And I ain't gonna be treated this a-way