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North Georgia Rounder - Pony Bradshaw

North Georgia Rounder

Pony Bradshaw

00:00

04:48

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Lyric

Over yonder, down at Cane Creek Holler

All the shine flood them that swallow

Lord, the Oosta, Oostanaula, lazy on the shoals

Run these rivers, singing these sins

Up the valley, I work for tips

Hiss at them haints, boy

Teach them that ain't, now

Ain't no master of this man

Tell him what or

What he can't, now

Ain't no master of this man

Master of this man

Black water slags through the country

I smoke my pipe full of cured tobaccy

Tide, she turns like gossip on a tongue

Need me a good girl, sweet potato

Keep my kitchen clean and fill my table

Hiss at them haints, boy

Teach them that ain't, now

Ain't no master of this man

Tell him what or

What he can't, now

Ain't no master of this man

Master of this man

I'm a North Georgia rounder

Playin' these foothill stomps

With my ragtime Rosie at my elbow

Chewin' on her French cigarettes

We came to drink, we came to dance

We came to sing our troubles away, yeah

I'm a North Georgia rounder

Playin' these foothill stomps

Hiss at them haints, boy

Teach them that ain't, now

Ain't no master of this man

Tell him what or

What he can't, now

Ain't no master of this man

Master of this man

Hiss at them haints, boy

Teach them that ain't, now

Ain't no master of this man

Tell him what or

What he can't, now

Ain't no master of this man

Master of this man

- It's already the end -