Holy Smoke - Dark-Haired Woman

A dark haired woman with curly locks
Wrote her telephone number on my cigarette box
But when I thumped the last one out of the pack
I forgot all about it and I threw it in the trash
I was in a motel room on the second floor
Had a Ithaca shotgun propped up on the door
Cause I hate the way this city yells and moans
I either want that woman or I wanna go home
Had a little whiskey in old tin cup
And a TV dinner that I couldn't heat up
I heard a banging on the door
I grabbed that shotgun and I hit the floor
We've got the whole place surrounded now
So put your hands up and your shotgun down

Your father reads obituaries
Then trades his paper for a
Corporate magazine
A gun shot from the tv screen
Your mother sews to dancing queen
Your brothers held up in the garage
Dressed in army camouflage
But he's just 16
An over tight purolater
And a heavy jetted carburetor
Spewing gasoline
Your screen door slams behind your back
And you take off across the grass
Yelling rescue me please
His motorcycle starts to rev
And you jump on the back with him
And don't come home til 3

About that time I woke up in a chair
The radio waves running up in the air
Flicked a cigarette butt out on the lawn
Wondering where all that whiskey had gone

Written by:
Jonathon Wilkes

Publisher:
Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid

Lyrics powered by Lyric Find