By the banks of the river where the willows grow cold
Wild birds warble the strange soundin' song
By the banks of the river where the waters run cold
Was there I first listened to the lies that she told

He lays there each night all alone and he weeps
Nothing ain't worse than a night without sleep
The letters she wrote him that were written in vain
But I know that her conscience still echoes my name

If the ladies were blackbirds and the ladies were thrushes
I'd lay there for hours in the cold rainy marches
If the ladies were squirrels, yea,h with a big bushy tail
I'd fill up my shotgun with a rock salt and nails
We'd fill up our shotgun with a rock salt and nails

Copyright: MUSIC MANAGEMENT
Writer(s): Bruce Utah Phillips