Jimmie Rodgers, 'Kisses Sweeter Than Wine' Singer, Dead of Kidney Disease at 87

About the Song

Jimmie Rodgers’ “Honeycomb” is a quintessential rock and roll classic that defined the sound of the 1950s. Released in 1957, it became a number-one hit, catapulting Rodgers to stardom.  

The song’s infectious rhythm and catchy melody are instantly recognizable. Rodgers’ charismatic vocal delivery, filled with youthful energy and raw emotion, perfectly complements the upbeat tempo. The lyrics, while simple, convey a sense of longing and desire that resonates with listeners of all ages.

“Honeycomb” was a groundbreaking record that helped shape the sound of early rock and roll. Its influence can be heard in countless songs that followed, making it a cornerstone of popular music history.Jimmie Rodgers | Spotify

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Lyrics: Honeycomb

(Honeycomb)
(Honeycomb)Well, it’s a darn good life
And it’s kinda funny
How the Lord made the bee
And the bee made the honey
And the honeybee lookin’ for a home
And they called it honeycombAnd they roamed the world and they gathered all
Of the honeycomb into one sweet ball
And the honeycomb from a million trips
Made my baby’s lipsOh, Honeycomb, won’t you be my baby
Well, Honeycomb, be my own
Got a hank o’ hair and a piece o’ bone
And made a walkin’ talkin’ Honeycomb

Well, Honeycomb, won’t you be my baby
Well, Honeycomb, be my own
What a darn good life
When you got a wife like Honeycomb

(Honeycomb)

And the Lord said now that I made a bee
I’m gonna look all around for a green, green tree
And He made a little tree and I guess you heard
Oh, then well he made a little bird

And they waited all around till the end of Spring
Gettin’ every note that the birdie’d sing
And they put ’em all into one sweet song
For my Honeycomb

Oh, Honeycomb, won’t you be my baby
Well, Honeycomb, be my own
Got a hank o’ hair and a piece o’ bone
And made a walkin’ talkin’ Honeycomb

Well, Honeycomb, won’t you be my baby
Well, Honeycomb, be my own
What a darn good life
When you got a wife like Honeycomb

(Honeycomb)

And the Lord says now that I made a bird
I’m gonna look all round for a little ol’ word
That sounds about sweet like “turtledove”
And I guess I’m gonna call it “love”

And He roamed the world lookin’ everywhere
Gettin’ love from here, love from there
And He put it all in a little ol’ part
Of my baby’s heart

Oh, Honeycomb, won’t you be my baby
Well, Honeycomb, be my own
Got a hank o’ hair and a piece o’ bone
And made a walkin’ talkin’ Honeycomb

Well, Honeycomb, won’t you be my baby
Well, Honeycomb, be my own
What a darn good life
When you got a wife like Honeycomb
What a darn good life
When you got a wife like Honeycomb

You Missed

Some people say loyalty is boring, but for Toby Keith and Tricia Lucus, it was the foundation of everything he ever built. Toby met Tricia back when his life was measured by the rhythm of the Oklahoma oil fields by day and the humidity of small-town bars by night. He wasn’t a superstar; he was just a man with a hard hat, a guitar, and a stubborn belief that his time was coming. They married in 1984, and it wasn’t long before the money got tight and the oil industry hit a wall. When people started whispering that Tricia should tell her man to pack it up and get a “real” job, she refused to listen. Toby later admitted that it took a rare kind of woman to let him chase a dream when nothing was guaranteed, but Tricia stayed long enough to see the world finally catch up to his talent. What followed was a career that few could dream of: over 44 million albums sold, dozens of number-one hits, and hundreds of thousands of miles traveled to support the troops. But when the spotlight faded and stomach cancer took hold, the life he built was still centered on the woman who believed in him before anyone knew his name. Toby fought the disease with everything he had, and Tricia was right there through every painful step. On February 5, 2024, when he passed away surrounded by his family, he left behind a legacy that had nothing to do with tabloid drama or manufactured scandal. He showed the world that a nearly 40-year marriage and unwavering loyalty aren’t just the stuff of old country songs—they are the greatest accomplishments a man can leave behind.

One song taught a generation of children how to spell a word they were never meant to hear, while the other told the world that a woman’s place was to endure the unendurable. By 1968, Tammy Wynette had become the voice of women carrying burdens too heavy for anyone else to see. “I Don’t Wanna Play House” had already brought the reality of broken families onto the radio, but “D-I-V-O-R-C-E” hit differently. Tammy didn’t sing it like a protest or a legal fight; she spelled the word out slowly, just like a mother trying to shield her child from the shattering truth. It went to number one and cemented her as the woman country music turned to when the vows finally broke. Then, just months later, she gave the world the exact opposite directive. She and Billy Sherrill penned “Stand by Your Man” in a frantic session, crafting an anthem around the old-fashioned, heavy-duty loyalty that defined country music for decades. It left the audience in a paradox: “D-I-V-O-R-C-E” made her the patron saint of women leaving, while “Stand by Your Man” made her the face of women staying. Both tracks became massive, and both were adopted by listeners who heard their own private struggles mirrored in the melodies. But those songs followed Tammy into a life that was far more complicated than any three-minute record. She walked through five marriages, a volatile divorce from George Jones, chronic health battles, and the relentless judgment of being labeled the “First Lady of Country Music.” Tammy never claimed those songs were a manual for living. She could sing about the pain of a child learning a forbidden word, then turn right around and sing about the grit required to hold on when everything else was falling apart. Country music always wanted one clean, simple image of her, but Tammy Wynette’s songs refused to ever give them that.

George Jones had one room in Nashville where he never touched a drop, and years later, Nancy placed his bronze likeness right outside that door. For most of his career, George lived in a storm of his own making. Between the missed shows and the substance struggles, he became country music’s greatest cautionary tale and its most haunting voice all at once. By the time Nancy Sepulvado married him in 1983, she knew the drill—watching him in dressing rooms, hotel suites, and buses, constantly waiting for the inevitable relapse. The wrong night or the wrong bottle could pull him under anywhere. Except for the Ryman Auditorium. To George, the Mother Church wasn’t just another stop on a tour; it was hallowed ground. He felt the weight of every legend who had stood on that stage—Hank, Roy, and the decades of history that seemed to hang in the air. Nancy once said it was the only place she didn’t have to worry about him. As soon as he crossed that threshold, the man who was famous for falling apart would finally stand still. That building demanded a kind of reverence he couldn’t find anywhere else. George’s path to sobriety wasn’t a miracle cure found in a single room—it took years of near-death crashes, hard choices, and endless battles. But that sacred space proved there was always a part of him that understood what it meant to respect the music. In June of 2025, Nancy returned to the Ryman to unveil a life-size bronze statue of George on its Icon Walk. She helped design it herself, capturing him in his sixties—sharp in a Nudie suit, snakeskin boots, and the signature hair he always kept just right. It’s a tribute that doesn’t scrub away the hard years she spent trying to save him, but it puts him exactly where he belongs: standing guard outside the one door where she could finally breathe easy.