Old Hank was not so old, but he is dead

Bourbon street, Sunday morning…
Listen to the tapping and the blues galore,
Hillbilly is passed out on the floor.
Sang his music till they locked up the door
His songs still float in the wind
Whiskey on his breath,
stands on the stage takes one last request,
Can’t help but cry,
Listening to a robin too sad to fly,
Watched the moon fall behind a cloud
Heard a rasp rip a part a cold heart
and the songs of all before got their start,
Saw a bunch of routy friends;
stopped by for steel guitars,
catfish pie and a couple of fruit jars,
with the bourbon street ladies strutting in,
opening up that door, to Sunday sin
Keep it under your hat,
she is look’n good,
but I am not coming back,
Note on the door,
she sent your saddle home,
Cashier at the bank says, “I am sorry,
Your wife has stopped in;"
Another artist lost to hard times and booze