Myself and Mr. Cash

The bus... the blessing and the curse.
You get to see a different point of view,
and a hobo sing in verse.
The time it strains the senses,
and the crowded quarters,
they suck the air and replace it
with a collage of smells,
that can assault and please the nose,
The bus... it comes, it comes and goes.



Beside a Singin' Mountain Stream
Where the Willow grew

Where the Silver Leaf of Maple
Sparkled in the Mornin' Dew
I braided Twigs of Willows
Made a String of Buckeye Beads;
But Flesh And Blood need Flesh And Blood
And you're the one I need
Flesh And Blood need Flesh And Blood
And you're the one I need.