Next town over John Potter's cousin worked the feed store.

John'd get five's worth in free feed, but gas'd cost five more.

John kept a clipping, it'd seen wear and tear.

Of La Paz in Mexico, round closing time he'd swear.

After some saving he'd move down there,

get a boat and breathe ocean air.

I'd stop and talk to John, on the way to town.

Always he'd tell who'd brought him down.

The world didn't care enough to conspire against him.

But I always smiled and gave him polite attention.

Kept his seed outside too long, and then he found

it rotting, he still put it in the ground.

Nothing came up, just dirt blowin' round.

A cow's tail slapped his face, so he put it down.

The bank sent letters, mortgage past due.

Tom Hilner pulled up in a for sale BMW.

Forclosure in hand, red stained his suit of blue.

John had shot him through the heart with a rusty .22.

Next town over John Potter's cousin worked the feed store.

John'd get five's worth in free feed, but gas'd cost five more.