Stovepipe hat, stovepipe boots,
Ankle-deep in red clay,
Light from a silver dollar moon,
Filtered through the canebrake,

And crystalline breath,
Cypress branch claws at the sky,
Like the hand of death,

With regrets to Fredrick Douglas,
Daniel O'Connell, and the cross,
God help me, I've been to the river,
But I could not row across,

Possum up a gum tree,
Coony on a stump,
But when the trouble is double,
Whee...Zip! coon will jump,

I've tried to be virtuous,
Forthright and true,
Now I'm left scrambling 'round these backwoods,
Trying to escape the George W. Dixon blues,

My father was an endman,
In a traveling minstrel show,
His tambourine smelled of burnt cork,
And his stump speeches were all marred with woe,

Mother sang opera buffa,
Commedia per musica,
I filled the lamps with kerosene,
And learned to play harmonica,

Oh, but possum up a gum tree,
Coony on a stump
And when the trouble is double,
Whoo!...Zip! coon will jump,

The Madame accused me of knavery,
Calumny gave way to pursuit,
So I fled with my old portmanteau,
Packed with the George W. Dixon blues,

Secured employment on the wharf,
Shucking oysters for the elite,
Table to table with a pail,
A towel and a knife to cut the meat,

By and by I came to entertain,
Private parties in the back,
Oprettas, and recitations,
Whiskey, Champagne, and black jack,

Oh, but then the possum up a gum tree,
Coony on a stump,
And, when the trouble is double,
Bang, Zip! Well, ol' coony he will jump,

Some cortigiana onesta,
Proposed we bid Frisco adieu,
So I rode a wave out to New Orleans,
Into the gulf of George W. Dixon's blues,

The air so fragrant and soft,
The morning doves they coo,
Pick up your fiddle, my dear,
Lay down your broom,

The honey bees are buzzing,
The tupelos are in bloom,
Like the whole world knows absolutely nothing,
Of that forbidden fruit,

Oh, but hang up your fiddle now,
Hang up your bow,
Fetch your pick axe and shovel,
And fetch your hoe,

Now I'm high steppin' through these backwoods,
Double trouble has forced me to,
A clean conscience does me no good,
With this blood on my shoes,

With apologies to Dred Scott,
William Garrison and my God,
I suppose you've heard by now old Uncle Ned,
Is long dead and gone,


And I hear the bagpipes calling,
There's not a soul who'll know the truth,
It would seem I'm mired neck deep,
In these George W. Dixon blues,

And I'm face down in these George Washington Dixon blues,