Tore Down Flat In Jackson

<br>Filthy and anonymous in Jackson, a dozen keys to nowhere in his hand <br>Black madonna, won`t you change his luck and find him fifty grand? <br>`Cause he`s tore down, months from nowhere, with the day-to-day out of his hands <br><br>One key fit the door to their apartment, another fit the business he let die <br>A stray dog whines as the August rains turn naked ground to mud <br>And he`s tore down, feelin` nothin` but the third-rate spirits in his blood <br><br>He`s livin` for a ticket on the whiskey train <br>The saddest thing`s to see him venerate that ball and chain <br><br>Roadhouse corn done cut his strings to somewhere, paper rich done met a ball of fire <br>Black dog cloud done filled his head and drained him like a vampire <br>Now he`s tore down flat in Jackson with a daily gig in the backdrop choir <br><br>He`s livin` for a ticket on the whiskey train <br>The saddest thing`s to see him venerate that ball and chain <br><br>A thick late August field of pigweed dances, a T.V. from the fillin` station`s heard <br>He`s holdin` up the wall, the moment says it all without a word <br>Well, he`s tore down, world stopped movin` when `halfway to the label` claimed it cured