Tom was a damaged man with a cracked heart, a beat-up truck, and a streak of bad luck. He got fired from work and came home early. Tom found the front door hatched, odd sound, the bedroom latched. Found his anger in the shape of a seven-inch blade and gave the neighbor a brand new tattoo.
And he said, “I know you wanted metal, but honey, you’ll have to settle for a shovel and a bucket of sand. Call a strong-willed lout or a cocained snout can smell the gold in the carbon wind. You know that heavy fees and a speed-infested breeze can spread you thin. Yeah, even the dead smell the carbon wind.”
Tom paid a third party a whole bunch and for once got lucky. Left like a leather-weighted bullet out a cannon called Kentucky. Said he had a plan or somethin’. Tom ran like the devil to Georgia, found a hole somewhere to bury his head, said writin’ a letter might make him feel better, but he wrote her a song instead.
He said, “When you were in the kitchen on the telephone, I was all alone. Honey, if I'da known that only you were gettin’ off while I was gettin’ stoned I’da showed ya cold-minded feet, heat-stricken bone. Too drunk to drive this thing alone. I need a hand.”