It was six o’ clock on Saturday
Henry Parsons died.
All of his good neighbors say
That man was never truly satisfied.
Preacherman never said no prayers
Church bells didn’t ring
Everybody stood up and stared when some
Choirgirls jumped up and started to sing
He was baptized in every creek in Georgia.
Devil still called his name.
Every time he shot up drinking holy wine
He’d spill it all down his shirt in shame.
Had an auction on his from porch this morning
Sold off all his clothes
Sold off his four-poster bed
There were debutantes and old ladies breaking out in fights in the front row
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