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All that I need is a bag and a box
One to bury my troubles
One to pack up my sox

I was a private school boy
Upper-middle class
Privileged to make my own troubles
Design my own traps

I have my own laboratory
A trash can full of vice
My friends come to the cellar door
To get clarity and roll devil's dice

She was a public school
From PS 39
Never had a spare pair of shoes
Nor the thinnest of dimes

The only things that she had
Were personality,
A swell at the hips, those black-painted lips,
And a vinyl purse full of things to please you

Here's to my troubles
Like Houdini's locks
Choke up that key before I
Drowned in this box

Her man's her little chew toy
A wet-mouthed singing blues boy
Spitting sin sweating droplets of gin
You don't want those front seats, they'd warn you

He asked her if she's found God
She said she hadn't looked hard
But take my hand to the back-alley man
He's got the next best thing there for you

He opened up his throat
Swallowed it down hard
Shouting groaning ugly twitching
Sick on the sweets of the world

Don't cry, little girl
Don't speak his name
You know you didn't love him
Why'd you come here to see me?

Now all that I need is a bag and a box
One to bury my troubles, one to pack up my socks

Out in the woodlands
Put out that flashlight

Mama always said you got to
kill them with kindness
But if that don't work
this old shovel might

Hit the ground running
But I can't move too fast
You know I got to make good time
But, Lord, I have to last

So here's to my troubles
Packed in a box
Buried in the woods
Under three feet of rocks


from Here Hope Flows Like Blood From the Nose, track released July 18, 2008
B. Crouch




The Resurrectionists Boston, Massachusetts

The Resurrectionists celebrate the dark depths of American roots music with a feel-good, righteous rock fervor.

Refined over the course of countless gigs in and around Boston, the 4-piece band’s performances combine driving rhythms and hellbent showmanship with a twilit vocal tour of family and faith, booze and the blues.
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