Trubloff

Trubloff

E A

and the trouble with you is that sting in my shoulder where your brother punched me, last july.  And maybe you can pardon my bitterness, but he can rot in that jail cell for another night

And the trouble with taking your cowboy home is they always rouse when you take off their boots.  And I'd like to apologize, but it's fair to say you rarely look before you shoot.

And the trouble with all these lullabies that I sing is that they get me so damn tired.

And I'd offer you a tilt-a-whirl time, but I'm afraid the midway's closed tonight.

And the trouble with me is you.

And you might be surprised, but the trouble with you, is me, too.