Well I used to wake the morning,
Before the rooster crow.
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.
He used to own an old Dobro,
Used to play across his knees.
I'd give old Curt my money,
He'd play all day for me.

Chorus:
Play me a song Curtis Lowe, Curtis Lowe.
I got your drinkin' money,
Tune up your Dobro.
People said he was useless,
Them people all were fools.
'Cause Curtis Lowe was the finest picker
To ever play the blues.

He looked to be sixty,
And maybe I was 10.
Mama used to whoop 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 take another drink a wine.

Chorus

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
Playin' the Black Man's Blues.
And on the day he lost his life
That's all he had to lose.

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

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