75 cents and a hand full of dirt
Most of my friends are writers
They hate life and people
I never leave the house
Either
Except when the horses are running
Or my bottle is half empty
It never gets empty
Phone rings at for thirty AM
I can't place the voice
But I know it's her
With nothing to offer
Just 75 cents and a hand full of dirt
Throw that soil on my grave
And keep the money
You might need it later