Song Lyrics That Means Something

"I ain't afraid of your husband, baby. I'll be over tonight"

Unknown Hinson.

Here's my "I'm a Melancholy Solitary Man" medley. It needs some work  It might get kicked off of YouTube soon.

I used to listen to a lot of Drive-By Truckers before Hood decided they needed to become overtly political.  Pretty much any song off of Southern Rock Opera would work here, but Zip City is a standout.  I mean the whole blame thing is high art.  Seems a shame to narrow it down to just two lines. 
Keep your draws on, girl, it ain't worth the fight
By the time you drop 'em, I'll be gone, and you'll be right where they fall the rest of your life
 

We're getting closer to Thanksgiving, and The Thanksgiving Filter will no doubt be played many times at the DarkMonohouse.
Thank God for the filter that enables some distance
from the screaming and crying and the needs of assistance
You wonder why I drink and curse the holiday
Blessed be my family, 300 miles away
 

It's tempting to just point a finger at Jason Isbell and say, "anything he wrote".  And it would not be far off.  But since I am on a DBT kick right now, Outfit is the high water mark.  So much is said in the first four lines:
You want to grow up to paint houses like me,
A trailer in my yard 'til you're twenty-three?
You want to feel old after forty-two years?
Keep droppin' the hammer and grindin' the gears.

I may come back and drop some more Isbell lyrics here.  It's hard not to.

Quick addition before I shut 'er down for the night.  Creeker from some Eastern Kentucky kid named Tyler Childers.
Now they knew not his name and he knew not their faces
and he knew not the how nor the reason for why
you could ever wake up and want to keep on a-livin'
in a place where a friend was a such a hard thing to find.
And for everyone you meet, there's a whole mess of people
tryin' like hell to pull you on down
to the level they're on and the trouble they're tendin'
in the mess that they've made in the gutter they've found.

I can't help about the shape I'm in
I can't sing, I ain't pretty and my legs are thin
But don't ask me what I think of you
I might not give the answer that you want me to
 

Fleetwood Mac