Lottery

Misfortune, got you like a sickness

The saints and angels all agree

Trouble sure as trouble sees it

I need it in writing to believe

To believe

The target was your heart in the beginning

Now there digging soft ground for your grave

I hope the mourners will bring plastic flowers

They'll drink to your death with pink champagne

Pink champagne

Now I hear your widow crying

Her weeping I made into this song

It's popular with the disco dancers

They'll play it on the radio all week long

All week long

Misfortune, got you like a sickness

And the saints, the angels all agree

Trouble sure as trouble sees it

I need it in writing to believe

To believe