She read her cards and wouldn't say a word. Let it be known that she saw elements in my future that wouldn't fit in song. Wouldn't rhyme. That's alright, mama, I don't believe in legal representation. I'm something of an anarchist. I try to be kind.
If fortune is measured in shoes, I'm rich. I'm not particularly proud of it. I'm sorta' the Imelda Marcos of inarticulate hillbilly writers.
What do you do?