From the albums Second Helping.

Well, I used to wake the morning,
Up before the rooster crowed,
Searchin' for soda bottles
To get myself some dough.

Run 'em down to the corner,
Down to the country store.
Cash 'em in, and give my money
To a man named Curtis Lowe.

Old Curt was a black man
With white, curly hair.
When he had a fifth of wine
He did not have a care.

Used to only play dobro,
Used to play across his knee
I'd give old Curt my money,
He'd play all day for me.

Play me a song, Curtis Lowe, Curtis Lowe.
I've got your drinking money, tune up your dobro.
People said he was useless, them people all were fools,
Cause Curtis Lowe is the finest picker to ever play the blues.

He looked to be sixty,
And maybe I was ten.
Mama used to whip me,
But I'd go see him again.

I'd clap my hands, stomp my feets,
Try to stay in time.
He'd play me a song or two
Then have another drink of wine.

Play me a song, Curtis Lowe, Curtis Lowe.
I've got your drinking money, tune up your dobro.
People said he was useless, them people all were fools,
Cause Curtis Lowe is the finest picker to ever play the blues.

On the day old Curtis died,
Nobody came to pray.
Old preacher said some words
And they chunked him in the clay.

Well, he lived a lifetime
Of playing the black-man blues.
And on the day he lost his life
That's all he had to lose.

Play me a song, Curtis Lowe, Curtis Lowe.
I wish that you was here, so everyone would know.
People said he was useless, them people all were fools,
Cause Curtis, you're the finest picker to ever play the blues.

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