Well I used to wake the mornin, before the rooster crowed. Searchin for soda bottles to get myself some dough.
Brought em down to the corner, down to the country store. Cash em in and give my money to a man named Curtis Lowe.
Old Curt was a black man, with white, curly hair. When he had a fifth of wine he did not have a care.
He used to own an old dobro, used to play it 'cross his knee. I'd give old Curt my money, he'd play all day for me.
Play me a song Curtis Lowe, Curtis Lowe. Well I got your drinkin money, tune up your dobro. People said he was useless, them people all were fools, cause Curtis Lowe was the finest picker to ever play the blues.
He looked to be sixty, and maybe I was ten. Mama used to warn me but I'd go see him again. I'd clap my hands, and stomp my feet, try to stay in time. He'd play me a song or two, then take another drink of wine.
Play me a song Curtis Lowe, Curtis Lowe. Well I got your drinkin money, tune up your dobro. People said he was useless, them people all were fools, cause Curtis Lowe was the finest picker to ever play the blues.
On the day Old Curtis died, nobody came to pray. Old preacher said some words, and they chucked him in the clay. Well he lived a lifetime, playin the black man's blues. And on the day he lost his life, that's all he had to do.
Play me a song Curtis Lowe, hey, Curtis Lowe. I wish that you was here so everyone would know. People said he was useless, them people all were fools, cause Curtis you're the finest picker to ever play the blues.
