For the good times

I'd smoked my brain the night before,
On cigarettes and songs I'd been pickin'.
But I lit my first and watched a small kid,
Cussin' at a can that he was kicking.
Then I crossed the empty street,
'n caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin' chicken.
And it took me back to somethin',
That I'd lost somehow, somewhere along the way.

On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cos there's something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down.



From the Kentucky coal mines to the California sun,
Hey, Bobby shared the secrets of my soul.
Through all kinds of weather, through everything we done,
Hey Bobby baby? kept me from the cold.



Lay your head upon my pillow
Hold your warm and tender body close to mine
Hear the whisper of the raindrops flowing soft against the window
And make believe you love me one more time

For the good times



"Oh," she said: "I suppose you seldom think about me.
"Now," she said: "now that you've a family of your own.
"Still," she said: "It's so blessed good to feel your body.
"Lord," she said: "Casey, it's a shame to be alone."