Lottery

Misfortune got you like a sickness The saints and angels all agree Trouble sure as trouble sees it I need it in writing to believe To believe The target was your heart in the beginning Now they're digging soft ground for your grave I hope the mourners will bring plastic flowers They'll drink to your death with pink champagne Pink champagne Now I hear your widow crying Her weeping I made into this song It's popular with the disco dancers They'll play it on the radio all week long All week long Misfortune got you like a sickness And the saints, the angels all agree Trouble sure as trouble sees it I need it in writing to believe To believe