There’s a gun on the table in the shape of three empty liquor bottles
The fourth bottle is in pieces littering the floor like bullets, empty shells where you put your decency to rest while you pretend life is a western
Gun powder tastes like fire and courage but I still don’t think your Stetson hid your tears
And I know your horse ran away and it’s now an excuse for you to never ride into the theatrical hypothetical sunset that is sober life but that still doesn’t mean you can’t make it on foot
This one sucks play a record that you haven’t broken yet.