Ambrose Webster Lyrics

Written by Barry Etris

Ambrose Webster was a part-time farmer
And a singer in Dan’s café.
He longed to replace his Arkansas shack
With a mansion overlooking L.A.

One fatal day, in deep despair
He shook his fist and said I swear
I’d give my soul for a starring role
In the entertainment world.

Lightening flashed, thunder crashed
And there stood a bearded man
In a blood-red suit, with brimstone boots
And a scroll in his left hand

Saying, “Ambrose son, if you’ll just sign
Above the dotted line,
I’ll make you a renowned superstar
And a personal friend of mind.

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Chorus:
Ambrose Webster, your life has turned to gold.
Ambrose Webster, Lord, the Devil owns your soul.
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Next day Ambrose said goodbye
To his wife and child at the door
And he never looked back
At that Arkansas shack
As he headed for the L.A. shore

All the years that came
Brought wealth and fame
The world lay at his feet
And he soon forgot the bearded stranger
And the bargain he made for keeps

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Chorus:
Ambrose Webster, your life has turned to gold.
Ambrose Webster, Lord, the Devil owns your soul.
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One night he was wheeling his new Rolls Royce
Down the lonely canyon road
And in his arms was a bundle of charms
Who was eager to please Ambrose

You can’t blame Ambrose for missing that sign
And not being able to stop in time
As over the bank, where the bridge should be
That new Rolls Royce went rolling free

And lying there in that mangled wreck
Lay a twisted empty shell
And his soul heard the voice that it knew so well
It sounds like the winds of hell

Saying Ambrose son, you son-of-a-gun
You certainly had some fun
I was planning on cooking you medium-rare
But I think I’m going to burn you well-done.

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Chorus:
Ambrose Webster, your life has turned to gold.
Ambrose Webster, Lord, the Devil owns your soul.
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As the long years roll
Ambrose’s soul swelters in the heat
And he thinks about life and his child and his wife
And the fate he couldn’t cheat

He knows he has a long-long time
To hand his head and weep
For the good ole days in Dan’s café
When he earned fifty dollars a week

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Chorus:
Ambrose Webster, your life has turned to gold.
Ambrose Webster, Lord, the Devil owns your soul.
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