Since Susan Johnson lost her jockey Lee,
there's been much excitement, more to be.
You can hear her moanin' night and morn,
"Wonder where my easy rider's gone.".
Cablegrams come of sympathy,
telegrams go of inquiry.
Letters come from Alabam'
and everywhere that Uncle Sam
has even a rural delivery.
All day the phone rings,
but it's not for me.
At last good tidings
fill our hearts with glee.
This message comes from Tennessee.
Dear Sue your easy rider struck this burg today
On a southbound rattler side-door Pullman car.
I seen him and he was on the hog.
Easy rider, got to stay away
So he had to vamp it but the hike ain't far.
He's gone where the Southern cross the Yellow Dog.
I know the Yellow Dog district like a book,
I know the route that rider took;
Every crosstie, bayou, burg, and bog.
Way down where the Southern cross the Dog.
Money don't exactly grow on trees;
on cotton stalks it grows with ease.
No racehorse, racetrack, no grandstand
is like old Beck and buckshot land
Down where the Southern cross the Dog.
Every kitchen there is like a cabaret;
Boll weevil works
while the people play
The Yellow Dog Rag
all the livelong day.