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She closed the French doors
and stood by the mantel,
Grabbed the fire poker
whopped him on the head.
Found a roll of duct tape,
bound him up real good,
kicked him down the staircase,
said you're lucky you ain't dead.
She packed a bag or seven,
threw 'em in the PT Cruiser,
stopped for gas and cigs,
put it on the interstate.
Didn't want to hear excuses,
didn't want to make it better.
She'd heard it all too often.
By now, it's too late.
He thought she was so sweet,
harmless and gentle.
She lit a cig and found I-25.
She didn't feel guilty,
knew she wouldn't miss him.
Drive By Truckers on the radio.
“It's great to be alive!”
Friends south of the border
loved Cuernavaca.
She could speak the language,
she'd get used to the heat.
Work some on her painting,
find a job somewhere,
Cerveza to drink and
tortillas to eat.
Scanned stations for a minute,
found Waylon Jennings.
The good life you promised
ain't what we're livin' today.
Big house and yard, yeah,
an island in the kitchen.
Wrong kind of island,
she's thinkin' hammock on the bay.
Gracey 2008
needs a chorus, bridge, something...any suggestions?
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