Well, today there's no salvation,
|
The band's packed up and gone.
|
Left me standin' with my penny in my hand.
|
There's a big crowd at the station,
|
Where a blind man sings his songs.
|
He can see what I can't understand.
|
|
It's the thirty-third of August,
|
And I am finally touchin' down.
|
Eight days from Sunday, Lord.
|
Saturday bound.
|
Eight days from Sunday, Lord.
|
And I'm Saturday bound.
|
Once I stumbled through the darkness,
|
Tumbled to my knees,
|
A thousand voices screamin' through my brain.
|
Woke up in a squad car, busted down for vagrancy.
|
And outside my cell it sure as hell,
|
It looks like rain.
|
|
It's the thirty-third of August,
|
And I am finally touchin' down.
|
Eight days of Sunday,
|
Saturday bound.
|
|
[Vocal stylings.]
|
|
Now I've put my angry feelings,
|
Under lock and chain.
|
Hide my violent nature with a smile.
|
Though the demons dance and sing their songs,
|
Within my fevered brain,
|
Not all my God-like thoughts, Lord, are defiled.
|
|
And it's the thirty-third of August,
|
I am finally touching down.
|
Eight days from Sunday,
|
Saturday bound.
|
|
Eight days from Sunday, Lord.
|
And I'm Saturday bound.
|
|
-----------------
|
The Thirty-Third Of August
|
| Mickey Newbury |
