Eight hours at work, another wasted day
I think I'll go home, curl up with a J.
I got the small town blues
Forty hours a week, every single year
All you ever get, is money for more beer
You got the small town blues
Drive around in circles, every Friday night
Some drunk redneck, always wants to fight
You got the small town blues
solo
Smell of burning incense, fills a candle lit room
Shadows dance like ghosts, to psychadelic tunes
You got the small town blues
Nothin' to do, on any weekend
Except go catch a buzz, with one of your friends
You got the small town blues
solo
No reason to bitch, about workin' Saturdays
You've got nowhere to go, anyway
You got the small town blues
(c) W. T. Fraley November 13, 1997