Country Music's Dead

I don't care if country music's dead
I'm just trying to make it 'til tomorrow
You're making it all up inside your head
That must be some awful kind of sorrow

These days everybody's making money
Off bitter hooks as fast-flute melodies
Praying for the floor seems so funny
And the only one that's listening is the trees

I like cheap guitars and cigarettes
And diner food that tastes just like my mother's
For a hundred bucks we'll play another set
And a case of beer to take home after hours

You can take a line from one of mine and make it rhyme
We'll keep the fire from burning out
A room full of talking
Don't know what we're talking about

I don't care if country music's dead
I just live a life of breaking even
She's making it all up inside her head
The one I wrote in G keeps her from leaving

These days everybody sings along
But you don't have to prove to me you know it
In fact, it's probably someone else's song
And I don't have to prove to you I wrote it

I like cheap guitars and cigarettes
Someday soon they'll both try to kill me
Might as well sell a few cassettes
To anyone who'll pay to listen to me

You can take a line from one of mine and make it rhyme
We'll keep the fire from burning out
A room full of talking
Don't know what we're talking about
Money is as money does
And money goes away so we keep buying
Easy come and easy go
But easy ain't the way so we keep trying

I don't care if country music's dead
I'm just trying to make it 'til tomorrow
You're making it all up inside your head
That must be some awful kind of sorrow