Something tells me I'm gonna outlive my luck,
and I don't want to be there when the old dog hits the ground.
Pain crawling in my boots is the only thing I've felt in weeks.
I've been rolling town to town, empty-bellied, looking for a bed to sleep.
And how could I think I could keep the sand from filling my lungs?
I will carry this.
And I won't stop until I cannot feel.