With Martha O’Connor in “You’ll Thank Me Later” at Bernunzio Uptown Music. Photo: Ken Colombo.
“You’ll Thank Me Later”
(A double-murder ballad duet, female sections in italics)
Cars pull up, a quarter to five, neon landscape comes alive.
Honest work boots pass through this door,
though rattlesnakes hide beneath the floor.
It’s booze and jealousy, a combustible mix,
life’s a bitch, I take some licks.
But why do you call everyone “Honey,” even the idiots?
Do you hear it?
Play that murder ballad on the old juke box
sung by Porter Wagoner in a Nudie suit.
Life ain’t nuthin’ but a blue crapshoot.
Don’t worry darlin’… you’ll thank me later.
Yeah, every few years a tornado flattens this town.
But that’s OK, we had it coming.
Most nights when I walk the dog
the road’s obscured by drifting fog
my brain echoes with angry dialogue.
“Are you stalking me?”
No, no, I’m not following you.
That’s right, you’re out, I’ve got a new man,
Yes, booze and jealousy, it’s a combustible mix
He don’t snore in bed, he don’t come home with whiskey dick.
His house don’t have a broken-down pickup truck
sunk to its axels in the backyard muck.
Do you hear it?
Play that murder ballad on the old juke box
sung by Porter Wagoner in a Nudie suit.
Life ain’t nuthin’ but a blue crapshoot.
Don’t worry darlin’… you’ll thank me later.
You’ve giving me an inferiority complex,
they’re singing songs about places I can’t find on a map.
Those friends of yours, crushed and bent like dead cigarette butts
Tell the story of this town, we’re living life in a rut.
You walked away.
If you were in my shoes…
Maybe I’d understand if you loaned me your shoes.
Baby, I dreamed we’d buy Hemingway’s fishing boat.
Grow old together with a dog sleeping on the bed.
Your breathing as easy as rain on a tin roof.
Remember that month we cooked meth in the basement?
Good times, good times.
I guess it’s just one of those nights, gotta go back to the bar, I forgot my hat.
It’s last call when you walk in the room,
Honey, it for you it was closing time three drinks ago.
Oscar Wilde, drinks and wit, why blame me, you can’t make up this shit.
I hit her on the side of the head with a 2×4.
But first I drew my .44.
We’re both bleedin’ out on the worn wood floors
As our friends run out the door.
So do you hear it now?
Play that double murder ballad on the old juke box
sung by Porter Wagoner and Dolly Parton in a sequined suit.
Life ain’t nuthin’ but a blue crapshoot.
Don’t worry darlin’… you’ll thank me later.