FRENCHMEN'S RENDEZVOUS

Late last night I heard a train whistle blow
And it was all I could do to keep myself from going
I’m just a no-good lonesome drifter
I don’t hang round very long
If it wasn’t for your cooking mama I would be long gone

Yes I love the way you roll out your biscuit dough
And stew my peaches, baby, nice and slow
You got this way about you, make me want to kick off my shoes
You put your puppies on me, mama, made me lose these no-good blues

Trouble sticks to me like gum to a schoolboy’s desk
Must be a sign on my forehead saying officer please arrest
And if I make it up to heaven, I know there’ll be some old copper there
Ready to throw me in jail for not saying my bedtime prayers

Go down to the larder and find yourself a nice haunch of pork
Then you put it on to simmer, baby, until it’s nice and soft
With a mess of collard greens in a nice hot buttery sauce
That’s the way to keep this mean old daddy from running off

I've never been one to call a spade a spade
'Cause that’s a real good way to find yourself in an early grave
I prefer to feel the sunshine warming my old lumpy head
And to sink like a possum mama in your big feather bed

Now, what’s that aroma wafting from you little pot of stew
I detect a pinch of cumin and a dash of curry too
You keep cooking like that, mama, I swear I’ll a new pair of shoes
Take you dancing every Friday at the Frenchmen’s Rendezvous

I'll take you dancing every Friday at the
Frenchmen’s Rendezvous