He resides on the corner of drunk and desperation
When your home life is vacant there's no need to take a vacation
People point and call him vagrant, he prefers to be called a nomad
But it's sunny out today and the whiskey glow's not so bad
He takes a slow drag from his hand rolled cigarette
Stains adorn his clothes and beard, a mask to hide his intellect
How could he forget about the better days and subplots?
You see: It's easy to get caught between starvation and gut rot
His mother told him not what to do as a child;
"Never let your pride get defiled" she said, then shot him an awkward smile
It's been a while since he caught the hidden meaning in her words
But now he knows what she knew then, so he laughs at the absurd
Life is just a word, you can take it or leave it
He's standing in the middle watching mother nature's cleavage
And he can't believe it: An egg sandwich with extra pepper!
Cancer stole his vocal chords so now he's writing letters
There's no eraser on the back of a matchstick
No eraser on the back of a matchstick, ain't it tragic?
There's no eraser on the back of a matchstick
No eraser on the back of a matchstick, ain't it tragic?
There's no eraser on the back of a matchstick
But we can't all be magic
So he rode through that desert on a horse with a name
The problem is he forgot it, it seems he'd rather change the topic
Not to stop the conversation, or to start a confrontation
(It) Seems he's trying to refrain from living a life of frustration
So stay patient 'cause he might get to the point soon
After he rolls another joint, sits back and enjoys doom
You see: It's coming at high noon; who knows what that means?
While we read between the lines this dude has already lost his dreams
It seems I heard the music stop or change, it's kinda strange
I remember it like it was yesterday, what a cliche
He came to my home to speak to my father alone
His voice box sounded like a broken microphone, so monotone
When he left alone, he had no tears in his eyes to speak of
After a week of not seeing him he finally got clean cut
Laying in a casket, it seems at last it's time to rest my friend
I haven't known many good men, but we buried the best of them
There's no eraser on the back of a matchstick
No eraser on the back of a matchstick, ain't it tragic?
There's no eraser on the back of a matchstick
No eraser on the back of a matchstick, ain't it tragic?
There's no eraser on the back of a matchstick
But we can't all be magic