Beat like a rug, ashed out and clubbed, well it’s all for my betterment. I’ll give you a rib with the marrow dried up, it’s not much but a widow’s gift. But in the right rays of the sun, if you squint hard enough, there can be only one like it. I’d write you a song, for all men to be one, but I’d sing it from a place of pride. I can sing over most and I’d gladly be the host, but most often I just hang my head and cry. There’s a song beneath the earth, it resides within the dirt, under the nails of a workin’ man. Drug in by the reign, of the crooked ways I think, I wish I was in a mood to die. Well life, it is good, no matter how far you sink, sometimes sitting still is better than to try. When you’re down in a hole, and your heart’s weighed down like gold, there is a hand that can reach you there.