Losing Hand

Death she knocking at the door,

and she ain't gonna wait no more.

So, fold that losing hand, boy,

and drink that whiskey down.

Wind she howling at the panes.

They rattling like a convict's chains.

So, fold your hands and pray, boy,

and drink that whiskey down.

Cause that's what you get

when your money runs too low.

And, that's what you get

when the horse you bet's too slow.

That's what you get

when her man takes the early train.

That's what you get, boy,

a bullet in your brain. 

A Magpie Tale