Letras:Woody Guthrie. Poor Boy.

My mother called me to her bedside,
These words she said to me,
If you don't quit you ramblin' ways,
They're gonna get you in the penitentiary.

Gonna get you in the penitentiary, poor boy,
Gonna get you in the penitentiary,
If you don't quit your reckless ways
They're gonna get you in the penitentiary

So I set myself down in a gamblin' game,
And I could not play my hand;
Thinkin' about that women I loved,
Who run away with another man.

Run away with another man, poor boy,
Run away with another man;
Just thinkin' about that woman I loved,
Who runs away with another man.

The cards come around the table, Lord,
And I had such a worried mind;
My stack of gold dollars I wasted away,
And I lost about ninety-nine.

I lost about ninety-nine, poor boy,
I lost about ninety-nine;
My stack of gold dollars I wasted away,
And I lost about ninety-nine.

It wasn't very long till I seen him again,
He run away and left her behind;
And I laid him down with my old forty-four,
And the judge gave me ninety-nine.

Well, the judge gave me ninty-nine, poor boy,
And he give me ninety-nine;
I laid a man down with my big forty-four,
And the judge give me ninety-nine.
Well, the jury said that I had to pay,
And the clerk he wrote it down