Luyện nghe bài hát Coot Marseilles Blues

{This story was told to me by Clover
At the Disc Jockey Convention
I Jerry I's gonna write a song about it
My brother Hillman gonna play Cigarette Paper And The Comb'
it}

Coot was an old black man
down Mississippi way
He worked out in the white yard
And he loved to and play

Ol' Coot hard, God rest his soul
He was much to roam
His entire was an old guitar
A cigarette and a comb

Now ol' Coot had one
That he would sing when his days were put in
There nobody knows that song now
I reckon that it died with him

His songs were up 'o dry bones
From pain and sweat and
And 'Lordy Lordy Lordy'
Was all you'd hear

Now on Saturdays ol' Coot didn't much
he built a fire in the stove
And when he get through he'd mosey on
And sit by the road

He'd hum that song as he walked
With the look in his eyes
And he sit there by the all day
them fine Ford cars go by

Now on Saturday night the white folks
And ol' Coot he'd pick and
He had an old RC neck
That he'd up and down them strings

Now Coot didn't care much for
He just made 'em up as he went
And Lord I they had a tape back then
'Cause I'd sure love to them song

Well his clothes were old and his hair was
And hard work had his back
His songs were never
By or flags

His were all about the working man
And Coot never a tie
The thing he ever really had to do
Was die

Now ol' Coot's and maybe I'm wrong
To it all back again
But I know his friends in Mississippi
Sure a lot of him

So rock on Coot and your rest
Your long work is done
And if got Fords up in Heaven, sir
I sure hope you're one

Lordy Lordy Lordy Lord
Lordy Lordy Lordy Lord