Honeycomb – Jimmie Rodgers

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

Some photographs of Elvis Presley are difficult to forget, and not because of his famous smile or extraordinary looks. It is his eyes. In certain pictures, the confidence disappears and something quieter takes its place. There is warmth there, but also a distance that makes you wonder what the man behind the photograph was carrying.

Elvis Presley was the kind of handsome that photographs could capture but never completely explain. The dark hair, blue eyes, strong features and slightly crooked smile were striking enough. Yet when you watch old footage, something else becomes obvious. His face was constantly changing with the emotion of the song. One moment he looked confident and dangerous, the next almost shy, gentle and vulnerable.

When Elvis Presley appeared in the mid-1950s, popular music suddenly felt different. He did not stand politely behind a microphone or hide the rhythm in his body. He moved with the music, sang with urgency, and brought an energy that felt almost dangerous compared with the controlled style audiences were used to seeing.

Patsy stood in a dress she felt was a costume, fighting the producer’s demand to sing a song she genuinely disliked. The studio lights at Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts burned hot that January night in 1957. Patsy stood backstage with a heart set on performing a different ballad, holding a vision of her own career that didn’t include the uptempo swing of a song she found tedious. She wanted the emotional weight of a country tear-jerker; the producer wanted a hit. The pressure in that dressing room was palpable, a quiet collision between an artist’s stubborn intuition and the cold machinery of television producers who cared more about broadcast tempo than personal conviction. She walked out there wearing a cocktail dress instead of her usual cowgirl gear, an image she felt didn’t belong to her. As the cameras rolled, she surrendered to the arrangement. She sang those lyrics she didn’t care for, her voice cutting through the air with a clean, haunting authority that demanded the nation’s attention. By the time the final note hung in the rafters, she hadn’t just won a competition; she had fundamentally altered the trajectory of her life. The audience erupted, and Arthur Godfrey broke protocol to tell her she had secured the victory before the commercial break even arrived. Success is often a fickle companion that arrives wearing the face of a stranger. That song, the one she fought against until the very last second, cemented her name on the charts and defined the sound of her breakthrough. She stood under those bright lights, the applause washing over a woman who had finally and accidentally found the exact sound the world was waiting for.