The Ruffian's Misfortune

Stone Blind Horses

Written by Ray Wylie Hubbard

There are some saints that have been forgotten

Like most of my drunken prayers

They say there’s a heaven somewhere above the yonder

Where there’s no more crosses to bear

Now there’s ghosts along the highways

And there’s storms out on the seas

My only hope is somewhere in that heaven

Some one is saying a prayer for me

I been ridin’ stone blind horses

Never seeing a reason to believe

Hey sweet Genevieve say a prayer for me

The wild young cowboys, old drunks, paramours and thieves

The high slurred whistle of a red wing blackbird

Sounds like he’s singing oh that I might die

It’s a song for those that have fallen

Unrepentant with no more alibis

I been ridin’ stone blind horses

Never seeing a reason to believe

Hey sweet Genevieve say a prayer for me

The wild young cowboys, old drunks, paramours and thieves

Barefoot in Heaven

Written by Ray Wylie Hubbard

Now they tell me the streets of heaven

Are paved with diamonds & gold

I may not get there but if I do

I believe I gonna take off my shoes

Gonna walk around heaven

Barefooted singing God’s praise

Gonna walk around heaven

Where there ain’t no end of days

Ain’t a secret if you know me.

I been no account most of my life

But I been converted and now I got the spirit

So there’s a chance I gonna see this paradise

When I get to heaven preachers tell me

I get a halo some wings and a harp

That’s well and good

But what I do hear

Is Sister Rosetta Tharpe

Jessie Mae

Written by Ray Wylie Hubbard

Oh Jessie Mae, Oh Jessie Mae

Ever time you sing

Black angels dance

Oh Jessie Mae, Oh Jessie Mae

Got a dead thumb groove

Like hammerin’ nails

On the low E string

Oh Jessie Mae, Oh Jessie Mae

Ever time you sing

Black angels dance

Oh Jessie Mae, Oh Jessie may

As God is my witness

I’m obliged to you

Much obliged to you

And the Mississippi blues

Down By The River

Written by Ray Wylie Hubbard, Marco Gutierrez, Sean Cooper

Gonna take you down by the river

Smell the gunpowder hear the ghost sing

There’s kids in the shadows drinking by the water

Smoking, blowing smoke rings

Gonna take you on down to the river

Learn about the viper and the mad dog wine

The bloodstains make a soul shiver

Feel a cold chill running up your spine

Gonna cross the Santa Fe Bridge

Got a pocket full of quarters and a fake ID

Sip a little poison on the Juarez side

There’s bones in the ground singing way off key

Gonna cross the Santa Fe Bridge

Got to walk fast keep between the lines

Nobody flinch when shots ring

Out stealing a young souls vital signs

Undertakers look like crows

Red eyed and dressed in black

Undertakers say you cross that river

There’s a chance might never come back

Undertakers bury them bones

Way over yonder by the railroad tracks

Undertakers look like crows

Red eyed and dressed in black

Blackbird flies through a broken city

Streets weep for the lost ones

Old folks say it’s a crying shame

The kids are dying by damn drug gun

Dogs howl in the old scarred city

Running wild out in the rain

We all cry for those who bleed

Shooting a little thrill into their veins

Mr. Musselwhite’s Blues

Written by Ray Wylie Hubbard

I was born in Mississippi

At a place I did not choose

The doctor pulled me from my mama

Said “Son welcome to the blues”

Was 18 when I come to Chicago

In a brown suit and worn out shoes

Little Walter handed me a harmonica

And said “This’ll help if you got the blues”

Had a woman, she up and left me

I said “Mr. Williams what should I do”

Big Joe said ”Well I know that woman

And Charlie you better off with the blues”

Now when I ‘m done breathing

I may not get to heaven but if I do

Gonna tell all them saints walking round

I was born and died with the blues

Bad on Fords and Chevrolets

Written by Ray Wylie Hubbard and Ronnie Dunn

Hey pretty thing let me tell you I was raised on the Rolling Stones

Cut my teeth on the Allman Brothers and Billy Gibbons tone

I learned the blues in Memphis and how to fight in Texas bars

Did some time in Oklahoma for hot wiring cars

I’m an Okie on the road come from Tishomingo in an ass hauling 402

I’m bad on Fords and Chevrolets but I ‘ll be good to you

Hey pretty thing maybe you heard I rolled a Mustang 429

Running from the law outside of Hays, Kansas oh yeah car wasn’t mine

I’m a pretty fast rough around the edges I don’t do debutants

Now you got juice you got junk to get any man you want

Hey pretty thing lemme show you my L.A. ink tattoo

If you go with me to city of angels I buy one for you

It’s a one day drive from Abilene to the California state line

We’ll stop at the Sands in Vegas and bet it all on black 29

Chick Singer, Badass Rockin’

Written by Ray Wylie Hubbard

Dirty blonde, black roots

Cuban heels suede boots

Gretsch drums, blackface amp

65 Vibro champ

Bottled lightning, heat in a can

Sloppy cool, two piece band

Short dress, torn stockings

That chick singer is badass rocking

Badass rocking, badass rocking

The chick singer is the baddest ass rockin

Midnight gig, cheap trucker speed

Sticky fingers let it bleed

Telecaster, bottleneck slide

Sings like a drunk Chrissie Hyde

Says rock & roll is flat out lawless

And Joan Jett is a goddess

Short dress, torn stockings

Chick singer, badass rocking

Badass rocking, badass rocking

This chick singer is badass rocking

Last set mascaras smeared

Her Sylvie Simmons books is dog eared

Daily plays old ZZ Top

Once a month bleeds rock

Believes rock & roll is old leather pants

Says Nashville country is piss ants

Short dress torn stockings

The chick singer badass rocking

Too Young Ripe, Too Young Rotten

Written by Ray Wylie Hubbard

She lights a candle to the black Madonna

She don’t care now what the Baptists think

She wants something a whole lot stronger

Than a cross hanging on a chain

She wears the ink of a sparrow

On the hand that holds a match

Her words sparkle like flint and silver

She sings as soft as dust and ash

Too young ripe, too young rotten

Needles and tread, linin and cotton

May my sins be forgotten

Too young ripe, too young rotten

She feels more years than she has lived

As she hangs her jeans on the bedpost

She shares her breath now only with the darkness

She owns a wilder heart than most

Too young ripe, too young rotten

Needles and tread, linin and cotton

May my sins be forgotten

Too young ripe, too young rotten

Hey Mama, My Time Ain’t Long

Written by Ray Wylie Hubbard and Jonathan Tyler

Ah children let me tell you bout the songs the bluesmen sing

Comes from a woman’s moans and the squeaks of guitar strings

Some say it’s the devil jingling the coins in his pockets

I say it sounds more like a pistol when you cock it

Aw mama I believe my time ain’t long

Ah children let me tell you about the songs the angels sing

In the back alleys of heaven with regret and broken wings

Some sing about the holy, pray and bow their heads

Some sing smokestack lightning and light up Marlborough reds

Aw mama I believe my time ain’t long

Now there are tramps in Paris dressed in Brussels lace

And sailors in Baltimore who have fallen from grace

And there’s some shovels and rope that’ll never get clean

And there is the faithful singing sister morphine

All Loose Things

Written by Ray Wylie Hubbard

Right before the harvest a blackbird sings

Look at them fools down there ain’t got no wings

Storm is a coming rain’s about to fall

Ain’t no shelter round here for these children at all

Scarecrow singing a song by Kevin Welch

Thunder is rumbling as if the devil himself did belch

Now the dirt is spattering turning into mud

Erasing all traces of broken bones and blood

All loose things end up being washed away

Roosters in the cornstalks pecking at grains

A peddler walks by says, “Why am I cursed like Cain?

I’m all lust and furies doomed to sell my wares

I think I’d been better off not saying prayers

Old harlequins and pilgrims always will believe

Was their savoir on a cross died between two thieves

Ask them and they’ll tell you the son was sacrificed

To undo the sin of Eve that cost us paradise

A dying crap shooter with whiskey on his breath

Is betting inside numbers shootin’ dice with death

Says, “All I ever roll is deuces treys and twelve’s”

Blackbird says ‘The gods can’t save us from ourselves’

All loose things end up being washed away