RITA CLINE 

Where you going Sunday morning,

Woke up half buried in my coffin,

All these believers try and stay modest.

Whiskey’s got my belly barking,

Just last week I said it’s one thing,

To call off this bitter racket

Wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

Oh, the waves,

Take the better part of a better man that’s keeping me this way,

Oh my Rita Cline on the lake,

Yappin’ on about their children and the kind of pills they take,

Oh this damned young modern age.

Hell bent on paranoia,

Crossing legs I’m dodging shadows,

That’s quite the stain not begged nor borrowed,

Dig the earth, plant the flowers,

Pick up the phone to call your mother,

Spend some time hanging round,

Talking for talking sake

Oh, the waves,

Take the better part of a better man that’s keeping me this way,

Oh my Rita Cline on the lake,

Yappin’ on about their children and the kind of pills they take,

Oh this damn young modern age.