It could always be worse
That's just the luck of the draw
It's the roll of the hearse
As it pulls up at your door
Ironic of course
But who says comedy is poor
Rich as a beggar in a grave by the shore
Lay me down in the sand
I don't want anymore
I'm too dog tired to stand
And I hurt to my core
Give me a leg up or lend me a hand
I'm run out of egg cups
And my soldier understands
You can't be a saint if you aint
You can't be sinner and live on paint thinner
Just get fat on the wages of a cat
