Automatic Blues - Chuck Prophet

Well, some things I’m built for fixin'

Make more sense to throw away

The touch of something human

What I really crave

Oh, just give me one thing

I can sink my heart into

Not another measure

Of these automatic blues, come on, come on

Well, the preacher preached the sermon

Sinners bow their heads

Sometimes I feel so alive

I wish I was dead

You might be on your back somewhere, baby

Too beaten up in your pew

Would Sunday lift the curtain

On the automatic blues?

Come on

Hey, turn me on, turn me off

Turn me out, turn me on

I said, turn me off, turn me on

Turn me out, turn me on

I feel like a pair of sneakers

In a washing machine

I’m bouncing off the walls

Trapped in the heap

Goddamn, thermostat’s gone crazy

I woke up with the flu

Wrapped up in a blanket

With the automatic blues, come on

Hey, come on

Get a hold on me

Get a hold on me

I want somebody to tell me

Where can my baby be