(Cooley / Cooley, Hicks, Hood, Malone, Neff)

Coming home with a bottle, trying not to break the seal
This Friday evening traffic's about enough to break a man's will
And I can't wait to see you and see how your week has gone
And tear into Old No.7 and make love till dawn
But your Mama she'll be calling, if she ain't knocking on the door
And it won't take me long to remember what I brought that bottle home for
And we'll all get to fighting, just like we always do
And by Saturday morning, I'll be singing these blues
Last night I slept with my boots on again
One cut on my forehead and one my chin
On the hard old floor with nothin to cover up with
You got me real good, girl, and I must admit
You pack purty mean punch for such a pretty little dish
And it's a shame to know most folks don't ever know love like this
Come Monday morning, I'll be sore to a fare-thee-well
Cussin' God and America, wishing them both just to send me off to hell
But the boss man don't want no excuses when it comes time to get on the clock
And without that paycheck, I'd lose the rest of what sweet love I got
Last night I slept with my boots on again
One cut on my forehead and one my chin
On the hard old floor with nothin to cover up with
You got me real good, girl, and I must admit
You pack purty mean punch for such a pretty little dish
And it's a shame to know most folks don't ever know love like this
Music by Drive-by Truckers