The clock don’t care for the crown you wear,Or the silver in your hand;When the Master calls through the heavy air,You’ll leave this weary land.
The bottleneck slides like a silver ghost,Pressing hard on the iron string,A hollow moan from the Delta coast,Where the spirit begins to sing. mississippi_fred_mcdowell_you_gotta_move
No use in hiding, no use in flight,The shadow’s gonna find your door;It’s a lonesome walk in the dead of night,To the golden, distant shore. The clock don’t care for the crown you
You may be high, you may be low,You may be rich, or poor as dirt,But there’s a wind that starts to blow,And a truth that’s bound to hurt. Or the silver in your hand