No Whiskey in Heaven
Slipping and sliding inside my mind,
I vary things inside, like blue.
Muddy Waters playing, just as he always should,
The blues in my memory
The blues in my blood.
Then my memory grips me, like the cold grips the snow,
the drinking man, he just follow, all boozers in a line
ping and ring o’work-a-day, don’t make me fall, this time.
No wonder that old drinker lived on a diet of blue.