It's up in old Kentucky,
Where they never have the blues;
Where the Captain kills the Colonel,
And the Colonel kills the booze;
Where the horses they are pretty,
And the women, they are, too!
Where they shoot men just for pastime,
When there's nothing else to do.
Where the blood it flows like water,
And the bullets fly like hail ;
Where every pistol has a pocket,
And every coat a tail;
Where they always hang the jury,
But they never hang the man;
Where you call a man a liar —
And then go home if you can.
Where you go out in the morning,
Just to give your health a chance —
And they bring you home at nightfall
With buckshot in your pants;
Where the owl's afraid to holler,
And the birds don't dare to sing —
For it's h — l in old Kentucky,
Where they shoot 'em on the wing.