Rye Love Isn't Good Love, Boys

Punch Brothers!



That's such a mature, fully-formed sound for people so young. The bandleader's home-schooled? Ah, yes; so was Mozart. Band's named after a Twain story, too. That makes them a seven-dollar, kid-skin, hand-tooled, gilt-edged, Friendship's Offering of a band, consisting of ten parts whoop-de-doo with five morsels of remorse.

Rye whiskey makes the band sound better,
Makes your baby cuter,
Makes itself taste sweeter.
Oh, boy!

Rye whiskey makes your heart beat louder,
Makes your voice seem softer,
Makes the back room hotter, oh, but

Rye thoughts aren't good thoughts, boys,
Have I ever told you about the time I...

Rye whiskey wraps your troubles up
Into a bright blue package,
Ties a bow around it.
Oh, boy!

Just throw it on the pile in the corner, see,
You're not alone in not being alone tonight, but

Rye love isn't good love, boys,
Have I ever told you about the time I...

I used to wake up bright and early,
Got my work done quickly, held my baby tightly.
Oh, boy!
Rye whiskey makes the sun set faster,
Makes the spirit more willing
But the body weaker because

Rye sleep isn't good sleep, Boys,
Have I ever told you about the time I
Took it and took her for granted?
How I took it and took her for granted?
Well, let's take some
And take them all for granted.
Oh, boy!

I'm an older feller and wise in the ways of bills-of-fare and petticoats, and could have warned them not to chase pleasure so enthusiastically that you actually catch up to it. Oh, well; 2.3 children, a dog to kick and a cubicle makes for a dashed poor drinking song.

Punch Brothers!