7
février
2016

It was down at Old Joe’s bar room
On a corner of the square
They were serving drinks as usual
And the usual crowd was there

On my left stood Big Joe McKennedy
His eyes were bloodshot red
Turned to the crowd around him
These are the very words he said

I went down to that St-James Infirmary
I saw my baby there
Stretched out on a long white table
So sweet, so cold, so fair

Let her go, let her go, God bless her
Wherever she may be
She may search this wide world over
Never find a sweet man like me

When I die please bury me
In my high-top Stetson hat
Put a twenty-dollar gold piece on my watch-chain
Let God know I died standing pat
I want six crapshooters for pallbearers
A chorus girl to sing me a song
Put a jazz band on my hearse wagon
To raise hell as I stroll along

Let her go, let her go, God bless her
Wherever she may be
She may search this wide world over
Never find a sweet man like me

Now that I’ve told my story
I’ll take an other shot of booze
And if anybody happens to ask you
I’ve got those gamblers blues

Let her go, let her go, God bless her
Wherever she may be
She may search this wide world over
Never find a sweet man like me

Commentaires.

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Nestor Variable
12 février 2016 - 18 h 02 min

Not a dollar, not a nickle, not a penny to my name
I’m the king of tap city and I’m out of the game
A nickle up, a nickle down, another nickle gone
Ain’t got a nickle left to carry me on.
If i ever get back on my feet, I’ll move from Saturday Ally up to Sunday Street

I’ll get a pair of dice that makes me seven all the time
I’m gonna be living on chicken and wine
Caviar four star, Johnny Walker Black, six pretty women in my gold Cadillac
Move where the living is sweet, from Saturday Ally up to Sunday Street

Well my hands are shaking and I ain’t feeling well from drinking King Kong liquor and cheap muscatel
But a little taste of bourbon and breakfast in bed and six million dollars can raise the dead
Just me and the other elite, raising high class hell up on Sunday Street

Everybody says I’m talking out of my head, but nobody bad mouths the man with the bread.
All the whores are gonna drop their drawers and say, “There goes the man who mugged Santa Claus,”
It pays to be discreet when you’re talking to the King of Sunday Street.

Not a dollar, not a nickle, not a penny to my name
I’m the king of tap city and I’m out of the game
A nickle up, a nickle down, another nickle gone
Ain’t got a nickle left to carry me on.
If i ever get back on my feet, I’ll move from Saturday Ally up to Sunday Street