Lirama

Filthy and anonymous in Jackson, a dozen keys to nowhere in his hand
Black madonna, won't you change his luck and find him fifty grand?
'Cause he's tore down, months from nowhere, with the day-to-day out of his hands

One key fit the door to their apartment, another fit the business he let die
A stray dog whines as the August rains turn naked ground to mud
And he's tore down, feelin' nothin' but the third-rate spirits in his blood

refrain:
He's livin' for a ticket on the whiskey train
The saddest thing's to see him venerate that ball and chain

Roadhouse corn done cut his strings to somewhere, paper rich done met a ball of fire
Black dog cloud done filled his head and drained him like a vampire
Now he's tore down flat in Jackson with a daily gig in the backdrop choir

refrain

A thick late August field of pigweed dances, a T.V. from the fillin' station's heard
He's holdin' up the wall, the moment says it all without a word
Well, he's tore down, world stopped movin' when 'halfway to the label' claimed it cured