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Tattooed Rose

by D.T. Buffkin

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  • Record/Vinyl + Digital Album

    Comes with mp3 download of the12-track record.

    Includes unlimited streaming of Tattooed Rose via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more.
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      $12 USD or more 

     

1.
Ain’t it the truth, ain’t it the truth? I ain’t always been good, but I’ve always been good to you. You got my heart hanging by a nail, time to cut your daddy loose. You know I love you, ain’t it the truth. Ain’t it the truth, ain’t it the truth? Sit right down, bartender, top off my baby’s gin and vermouth. Come on over here, sugar, next to your papa in the booth God knows I miss you, ain’t it the truth? Ain’t it the truth, ain’t it the truth? As we sit here arguing, darling, we’re only losing our youth. I’ve done wrung my head, drained my eyes trying to get a better view You know I love you, ain’t it the truth?
2.
As every man jockeys for a better view than a horse’s ass, So, too, a better man sends his steed into the grass. And when there’s nothing to keep a good man safe, I stand at the county line and wait. Throw some Circus Roses round my neck, Mount my head on a pretty girl’s rack. I’d sell my Mama’s kisses for a better view down at the track. And when there’s nothing to keep a poor boy safe, I stand at the county line and wait. Daughter says to her Mama, “I love you, but you’ve got no class.” Mama blows a smoke ring says, “Baby, you can kiss my ass.” And when there’s nothing to keep a good man safe, I stand at the county line and wait. Mama, wake me early in the morning. I’m chasing that moon, gotta get home soon, I got a letter from my darling. Politician wants your vote, That preacher man wants your pay. I’m still waiting for that sweet salvation my Mama put on layaway. And when there’s nothing to keep a poor boy safe, I stand at the county line and wave. On that upscale side of town, They’re locked in behind gates of greed. My broke ass grass is just as green, My honey’s honey is twice as sweet. And when there’s nothing to keep a good man safe, I stand at the county line and wave. Mama, wake me early in the morning. I’m chasing that moon, gotta get home soon, I got a letter from my darling.
3.
I’ll sell you, Lord, my best friend’s used lungs For a Salvation Army and a light. They’re a little black but still fairly young And he can’t put up much of a fight. I’ll sell you, Lord, my old man’s knife. You can use the Devil’s ass as a sheath. Or sharpen it on his breastbone, or just do as you like, But, please, just gimme some relief. Or better yet, I’ll sell you my next lay For a little piece of mind. My baby might cuss and kick up a fuss, But deep down you know she’s so kind. And, Lord, I’m sure you know this to be true: No Eve-descended woman could possibly refuse, Pomade and peppermint and ya act real smooth, Put a little wind in her hair on a warm Sunday afternoon. I’ll sell you, Lord, this piano. It’s a half-step flat, but it plays, And it’s said to have been in a brothel of sin, But you can exercise it with, “When the Saints Go Marching In,” If you only play it over again and again, At least for a couple decades. I need some relief……………………….
4.
Tattooed Rose On an island off Spain where the wine flows like water Lives a bastard-crook’s spawn and a raving whore’s daughter And every wicked way of the world is inked there upon her. From the nape of her neck down to her little toe is written and scrawled a century of woes And each is worse than the last but no two are the same. But so it goes, cinco pesetas show…Ms. Tattooed Rose. On her chest above her breast: the Rape of Nanking, 100 beheaded Huns stitched right above her spleen, On her back, dripping down her crack: the Queen’s own bloody guillotine. A rosy crucifixion from her left hip to her ankle The right will take your breath, sixty virgins beaten and mangled. Grab a seat and a drink at Cabron Julio’s. Don’t need no clothes, boys enjoy the show…Ms. Tattooed Rose. Franco keeps watch over her right shoulder, You’ll have to squeeze Hitler if you ever wanna hold her. Der Fuhrer keeps rank-n-file over the left flank. Her stomach is devoted to that bloody Inquisition On her calves the clergy get theirs in several compromising positions With special attention paid to the burning of Rome. Don’t need no clothes, boys enjoy the show…Ms. Tattooed Rose.
5.
Sandalwood 03:44
Sandalwood When the nurse walks in, we’ll all pretend And stand up like we’re real gentlemen, But we’re tangled up in blood. John will be gone before his flowers are dead With his scooped out face and his busted up head. He pulled through when some fine Mexican lady walked in the room wearing… Sandalwood, Sandalwood, Never has nobody smelled so good, As when my baby wore Sandalwood. Sandalwood, Sandalwood, Never has nobody felt so good, As when my baby wore Sandalwood. A man is the measure of how light he travels And everything I wear is everything I have, so, Let your love burden me, if you would. And when I rest my head for the final time On a bed of silk or a bed of twine, You can revive me if you would with… Sandalwood, Sandalwood, Never has nobody smelled so good, As when my baby wore Sandalwood. Sandalwood, Sandalwood, Never has nobody felt so good, As when my baby wore Sandalwood.
6.
Get me Kansas City, I’m high on the moon above, Though my feet’s on the ground, I can’t hear no sound, But the cooing of the doves. Get me Kansas City, Where the gals are fine and clean. Their flaws are all hid and their hair’s always did, If only in my dreams. Just a drink from them fountains will keep this boy sane. You only gotta get me home to the Paris of the plains. Get me Kansas City, Stack my chips to the chandelier. Let them rollin’ bones be my new mansion home, Not a siren do I hear. Get me Kansas City, I’m floatin’ on champagne. Make it 50 on red, Put that Sheriff to bed, Let’s spin that big wheel again. I’m taking my bite out of that ripe, little apple. Getting’ me a jayhawker girl and getting to Frankie Wright’s Chapel. You just gotta get me home to the town that I love. Let all the politicians have Hell below, The good Christians have Heaven above. Get me Kansas City, No other town’ll do. I’m floating my raft on a river of graft Right into Don’t Mind If I Do. Get me Kansas City, Drop the curtain on my blues. I’ve made me a cape of old vermillion drapes, I’m flying past a cheddar moon.
7.
(Instrumental)
8.
Backdoor, trap door, side door, any door I gotta get loose. And if I make it outta this house alive, I’m gonna get juiced. She got a mean old man, mad as a hornet. I ain’t losing my life just to get up on it. Backdoor, trapdoor, side door, any door, I’m rollin’ on. Big house, small house, outhouse, White House I keep my baby refined. I got my wicked mind on my money And my money in my blood diamond mind. I’m checking in to make my pile, Got a throat like a gulch, a thirst for a mile. Big house, small house, outhouse, White house I’m layin’ down. Backdoor, trap door, side door, any door I’m coming out the window if I must. You don’t make use of that lovin’ engine, It’s bound to rust. You can accuse me of this, accuse me of that, Can’t accuse me of sitting on it, letting it get fat. Backdoor, trap door, side door, any door I’m movin’ on.
9.
Y’know a hardloint man gonna do just as he please. I said a hardloint man gonna do just as he please. So when that police man says I’m going too fast, I pay him double the fine, I’m speeding all the way back. Y’know a hardloint man gonna do just as he please. You know a hardloint man satisfies his baby’s needs. I said a hardloint he knows what makes that honey sweet. You getcha finger wet and ya dip it in the pot, Let the honey drip til the very last drop. I said a hardloint man satisfies his baby’s needs. Y’know a hardloint man gonna do just as he please. I said a hardloint man knows how to kill his grief. Gimme a cold ale and a stinky green bag, I take a puff, a toke, a pull, a sip, a drag. Y’know a hardloint man he knows how to kill his grief. I said a hardloint man knows how to kill his grief, Just call me Chief.
10.
Pull a Jelly Roll rag from an old, junky sax And all the world’s trouble from a brown paper sack. High as a Bird, stubborn as a mule, Sky’s hell on a pilot, rain’s hard on a fool. When Gabriel blows his horn, he’ll blow right back. Going all the way to L.A. racing fever on a train. You can’t go home you’re playing alto in the rain. Shoeshine boy will fix you up for a tune, Blowing dents out the brass, crazy as a loon. Moose is cooking up in the shower drain. Poking at the cabbage in the California sand. You’re tapping your slippers to the hospital band. Pull along the pasture, flat fifths at a heifer, Get me Kansas City, I never should’ve left her. Sweet dreams of Minton’s and a fat roll in my hand. Pull a “Pineapple Rag” from an old, junky sax And all the world’s glory from a record sleeve, Jack. Shake a little salt between the heart and the bone, Listen to that Bird calling me home.
11.
Wasted pennies in a well Just because you never can tell. The wealthy banker makes an heir of filthy water For some poor sharecropper’s daughter. Wasted pennies in a stream A Steel Reserve and a golden scheme. From the mansion on the hill down to the Goodwill, Mink coats over Army greens. Lady Luck, ass up in the tub A diamond ring on a floating glove. The parlor Victrola wanes on, “At last my love has come along.” I’ve blown fortunes on all those old jukebox love songs. Wasted wishes down the drain Along with soda water and Tanqueray. Jimmy I thought I told ya, If you ain’t playing “Strip Polka,” Leave that piano alone today. Lady Luck ass up in the bath The water’s flooding the downstairs flat. They already called the cops but that rain ain’t gonna stop. Take all your lousy, good-for-nothing wishes and shove ‘em in the cracks. Wasted pennies in a well The hounds of love out chasing tail. Heaven forbid should they catch it when they fetch it, Wishing for fishes landing whales. Heaven forbid, should they catch it, when they fetch it. Wasted pennies in a well.
12.
Instrumental

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Honky Tonk'n'Roll. Pissed Piano.

Send all junkmail, letters of undying adoration, hate mail, proposals, pornography, etc. etc. to:
DTBUFFKIN@gmail.com

credits

released June 14, 2013

D.T. Buffkin- piano, guitars, vocals, maracas, melodica, big ass bass drum
Roland de la Cruz- guitars, snaps
Ricardo Martinez- clarinet, alto sax
Mason Macias- drums, percussion
Andrew Maley- double bass
Ric Ramirez- double bass on "Rode Hard & Put Up Wet"
Mike Davis- trombone
Michael Kelly- trumpet
Anthony Guzman- bari. sax

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D.T. Buffkin San Antonio, Texas

Somewhere between the AM country of yesteryear, the high and lonesome willow-whine of the ferociously stoned cosmic cowboy and the horny, rambunctiousness of '70s Brit-blues-rock resides D.T. Buffkin and his "honky tonk 'n' roll."

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