©2002 Andrew Calhoun, recorded on Shadow of a Wing

There's troubles you talk to a stranger about,
And trouble you keep in your family; 
And trouble that hides in your bedclothes at night 
That whispers discouragement daily. 
And there's no place to hide from the sin and the pride, 
From the good and the bad and the ugly; 
And no place to go where the seasons don't know you, 
I told you so, told you so baby. 

There's wandering minstrels with ballads and fiddles, 
Pots of old coffee and whiskey; 
And muscular plumbers with wrenches and hammers 
That come up the back from the alley. 
And wicked old witches, those daughters of bitches 
Come riding on broomsticks of glory; 
To seize all your sorrows and smooth down the furrows, 
I told you so, told you so baby. 

While you were out walking and stalked in your stocking feet, 
Hammerlocked, hauled in the barley; 
Sucked out like an ice cube, out flat like a squeeze tube 
Balled up and still breathing, just barely. 
Here come those witches, those daughters of bitches, 
Too wild and wise to fight fairly; 
Farewell and Hell's bells to the devil, dear boy, 
And I told you so, told you so baby.
I told you so, told you so baby.