From the recording Wullie One
trumpet, Nick Hamm
french horn, Natalie Brock
Ya'll got music there where you come from?
Is there a tune my gut might one day carry out?
Way I sing I don't expect there's nothing like that for me but
I'm allowed all the time I want
I ought to slice my fingers clean off next time
Bare my toes next time I'm in a rut
Every day I wake I say, 'k, what new bullshit might come?'
Still I'm alive, can't that never be enough?
I ought to fix my money into a hole outside
How come every time you dig it up I blush?
Tell me what you thinking cos I happily hear opinions
I don't mind -- cos I know there ain't nothing meant by it
Just make my money make money
You took the gas station man for a ass
Here he only yesterday lay his mother in a casket
He said, 'Man, I must have seen one hundred people come thru today
I don't pay em no mind
Cos ain't a one no friend to me'
You tread this world thru the best you can
If you've a hound dog, send him with me
Or else I'd kindly take a mat to die on