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 her 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
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
He’s livin’ for a ticket on the whiskey train
The saddest thing’s to see him venerate that ball and chain
A thick late august field of pigweed dances,
a tv 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
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