Filthy and anonymous in Jackson, a dozen keys to nowhere in his hand    Black madonna, won't you change his luck and find him fifty grand?    'Cause he's tore down, months from nowhere, with the day-to-day out of his hands       One key fit the door to their apartment, another fit the business he let die    A stray dog whines as the August rains turn naked ground to mud    And he's tore down, feelin' nothin' but the third-rate spirits in his blood       He's livin' for a ticket on the whiskey train    The saddest thing's to see him venerate that ball and chain       Roadhouse corn done cut his strings to somewhere, paper rich done met a ball of fire    Black dog cloud done filled his head and drained him like a vampire    Now he's tore down flat in Jackson with a daily gig in the backdrop choir       He's livin' for a ticket on the whiskey train    The saddest thing's to see him venerate that ball and chain       A thick late August field of pigweed dances, a T.V. from the fillin' station's heard    He's holdin' up the wall, the moment says it all without a word    Well, he's tore down, world stopped movin' when 'halfway to the label' claimed it cured