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 there 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