Lonesome And Dry As A Bone

-The shadows are creeping across the dirt mound
-Way down in the bottoms below
-And the willows are weeping a sad mournful sound
-That whispers she ain't coming home
-And the moon rides high in the cottonwood trees
-And the last birds of summer have flown
-I'm high as a pine upon sycamore ridge
-Lonesome and dry as a bone