Shack down by the riverside all tied up with lace
harmonica she gave to him he plays 3 in the morning
He plays 3 in the morning,
3 in the morning cigarettes glow
off of the back porch where the wanderers come in,
Whistlin' high and their whiskey's low.
Pockets full of stones and shoes broke open
They come in for food, from the railroad.
Brown sun speckles and dust on their faces
Back to that ramblin' trainside southern home.
They play 3 in the morning,
3 in the morning in the full moon shine.
Throw ropes to the water where their clothes are floating,
3 in the morning is as good as anytime.
And their babies are wild as flowers grow,
Eatin dandelions and watching clouds blow.
Those strong ladies are turning to maidens
Brown shoulders are freckled and fading.
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