Folk Singer

The devil works hard but he doesn't work a nine to five

And he made drugs but he doesn't need em to feel alright

Just a kid barely keeping on the lights in their eyes

And I've killed myself a hundred ways a hundred times

My neighbor bought a gun that he's not too scared to show

But he's too scared to talk to people he doesn't know

Came from a town where only the crabgrass grows

There's a mass murder column in the paper right next to prose

And I do feel bad about it but I don't wanna know