Nother Country Ballad

Th’ weed ain’t cut the pain no more,
th’ pills got me driving through th’ storm,
I’m drifting down 11,
southbound to Liverpool,
hoping for a bag of heaven,
thinking bout my life at 7,
feeling like th’ fool,
who sold his daddy’s tools,
for th’ tar that holds the folds,
the lines bout t’ break,
y’ ain’t holding up t’ date,
and th’ lights are on th’ street,
a quarter past 3
as y’ pass th’ ones asleep,
headed to th’ river meet,
where th’ down and dirty heap
in th’ hills that hold barges at ‘er feet,
th’ weed ain’t cut the pain no more,
but I’m here at the flooded door,
ready for th’ not much more,
hitting hard th’ fentanyl,
th’ vapor mist of m’ soul,
I am the fool,
I am that fool,
who sold his daddy’s tools.