Pinewood Box

That Pinewood box,
Is a hell of a spot.
For any a man, to be in.
When they shut the top,
And they nail it to the box,
That youre lying in.
Well It creaks and it moans
Behind, that horse drawn cart.
Across the cobblestone,
To the empty hole.
In the ol'e back lot.
Lord I pray,
Lord above.
To the lord above,
That them roots
Wont grow down.
And punch a hole
In the top
Of my pinewood box.
They say you can hear,
That howling wind.
Bluebirds that singing in.
The Tennesee top.
Of the pinewood, lord.
That your box is made with.
Lord I pray,
Lord above.
To the lord above.
That them roots,
Wont grow down.
And punch a hole,
In the top,
Of my pinewood box.
They say the lord,
Will find a knot.
Punch it on out.
And take your soul.
Through the tiny hole.
Of your pinewood box.
Take your soul.
From the tiny hole,
Of your pinewood box.