Little Amsterdam
In a southern town,
Hominy, get it on the plate, girl.
Momma, keep your head down.
Momma, it wasn’t my bullet.
Don’t take me back to the Range,
Back to the Range,
I’m just comin’ out of the cell in my brain.
Don’t, boy, take my back to the Range,
Back to the Range.
‘Cause girl you got to know these days,
Which side you’re on.
Momma got shit.
She loved a brown man.
She built a bridge in the Sheriff’s bed.
She’d do anything to save her man.
You see, her olives, they are cold pressed.
And her best friend is a sun dress.
But Momma,
It wasn’t my bullet.
Don’t take me back to the range,
Back to the range,
I’m just comin’ out of the cell in my brain.
Don’t, boy, take me back to the range,
Back to the range.
‘Cause girl you got to know these days.
Hop on, I’ve got a girl in the city.
Hey, got a room and a place for two.
Got a coat and I found myself.
For, boy, you want my Fifth Avenue?
Round and a round and a round I go.
Round and a round this time for keeps.
Round and a round and a round I go.
Round and a round this time for keeps.
Father, only you can save my soul.
And playing that organ must count for something.
Girl you got to know these days….
Little Amsterdam.
Shut down today.
They buried her with a
butter bean bouquet.
And the Sheriff now, can’t ride away
like he said, into the sunset.
And I won’t say,
He shouldna paid.
But Momma,
It wasn’t my bullet.