There is a house down in New OrleansThey call the rising sunAnd it's been the ruin of a many poor boyAnd me, oh God, for oneThen fill the glasses to the brimLet the drinks goMan!Early aroundAnd we'll drink to the healthOf a rounder poor boyWho goes from town to townThe only thingThat a rounder needsIs a suitcaseAnd a drinkAnd a drumAnd the only timeHe's satisfiedIs when he's on a drumYeah!Got all the guitarNow boys don't believeWhat a girl tells youThough her eyes be blindedblue or brownUnless she's onsome scaffold highSaying, boys, I can'tcome downGo tell my youngestbrothernot to dothe thingsI've doneBut to shunthat housedown in NewOrleansThey callthe risingsunguitar soloI'm goingbackBack to theback toNewOrleansFar moreracesnearlyrunGonna spendthe restof mywickedlifeBeneaththatrisingsun