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Promised Land (Chuck Berry cover) Lyrics
I left my home in Norfolk Virginia,
California on my mind.
Straddled that greyhound, rode him past Raleigh,
On across Caroline.
Stopped in Charlotte and bypassed rock hill,
And we never was a minute late.
We was ninety miles out of Atlanta by sundown,
Rollin cross the Georgia state.
We had motor trouble it turned into a struggle,
Half way cross Alabama,
And that hound broke down and left us all stranded
In downtown Birmingham.
Straight off, I bought me a through train ticket,
Ridin cross Mississippi clean
And I was on that midnight flier out of Birmingham
Smoking into New Orleans.
Somebody help me get out of Louisiana
Just help me get to Houston town.
There's people there who care a little bout me
And they wont let the poor boy down.
Sure as you're born, they bought me a silk suit,
Put luggage in my hands,
And I woke up high over Albuquerque
On a jet to the promised land.
Workin' on a t-bone steak a la carte
Flying over to the golden state;
The pilot told me in thirteen minutes
Wed be headin' in the terminal gate.
Swing low sweet chariot, come down easy
Taxi to the terminal zone;
Cut your engines, cool your wings,
And let me make it to the telephone.
Los Angeles give me Norfolk Virginia,
Tidewater four ten o nine
Tell the folks back home this is the promised land callin'
And the poor boys on the line
California on my mind.
Straddled that greyhound, rode him past Raleigh,
On across Caroline.
And we never was a minute late.
We was ninety miles out of Atlanta by sundown,
Rollin cross the Georgia state.
Half way cross Alabama,
And that hound broke down and left us all stranded
In downtown Birmingham.
Ridin cross Mississippi clean
And I was on that midnight flier out of Birmingham
Smoking into New Orleans.
Just help me get to Houston town.
There's people there who care a little bout me
And they wont let the poor boy down.
Put luggage in my hands,
And I woke up high over Albuquerque
On a jet to the promised land.
Flying over to the golden state;
The pilot told me in thirteen minutes
Wed be headin' in the terminal gate.
Taxi to the terminal zone;
Cut your engines, cool your wings,
And let me make it to the telephone.
Tidewater four ten o nine
Tell the folks back home this is the promised land callin'
And the poor boys on the line
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