Turpentine Blues

Goin' home in the mornin', woman, I sure can't carry you
(Aw, no!)
Goin' home in the mornin', Lord, I sure can't carry you
(Ain't gonna carry nobody, that's the main thing)
Ain't nothin' up down there, Lord, a monkey woman can do

I don't want no jet-black woman, Lord, to cook no pie for me
(Don't cook nor iron)
I don't want no jet-black woman, Lord, to cook no pie for me
(What kind of man are you?)
'Cause black is evil, I'm scared she might poison me

Some men love high yellow, boy, you give me my black or brown
Some men love high yellow, boy, you give me my black or brown
(That's good notice!)
'Cause your brown be with you when the yellow puts you down

(Oh, Mr. Will, play it!)

Says, I wonder would it, boy, a matchbox hold my clothes
(Matchbox, now?)
And I wonder would a matchbox hold my clothes
(You know how much there ain't?, I ain't got nothing)
I ain't got so many, Lord, I got so far to go

Gonna wash my face in the dear old Mexico
Gonna wash my face in dear old Mexico
(I'm gonna be back here, though)
Gonna eat my breakfast, thousand miles or more

Now, what you gonna do, boy, when your troubles get like mine?
What you gonna do, boy, when your troubles get like mine?
Take you a mouthful of sugar, boy, and drink a bottle of turpentine