Keep Your Dollar, Mister Lowe

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