Played your smoky room for seven years straight
Sang till my throat bled, never once was late
You paid me in promises and watered-down gin
Now you want a discount on the crowd I brought in
So keep your dollar, Mister Lowe
I'm packing up my Gibson, I'm ready to go
Got a call from Memphis, a stage with real lights
A man who pays on Fridays and treats a singer right
You laughed and said I'd crawl back by the end of June
Well, look for me on the radio, humming my own tune
So keep your dollar, Mister Lowe
I'm packing up my Gibson, I'm ready to go
Every note I gave you, I'm taking it back
Every song you stole is riding on that track
So keep your dollar, Mister Lowe
I'm packing up my Gibson, and I'm gone
