It's gotten to a point

where the devil won't even buy my soul –

he said it's too broken and there’s no way

he could make a profit.

All I wanted for it was a few 2 milligram bars of xanax

and a cheap bottle of brandy,

but apparently I ain’t even worth that.

But maybe it's all for the best

because if I really am that broken

then at least I know damn well

I've got some character –

a rusted tractor rotting away gracefully

at the edge of a barren field in Kansas

filled with stars...

I’d 'wanna sit somewhere like that

to spend the night drinking

and then sleeping the day away,

not someplace where I know there’d be

an angry old farmer up before dawn

to chase my plastered ass off his property

with a shotgun.

And so it seems to have come to this,

when all my fields have finally died

and I can sit back and harvest

the moon with my eyes.