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Lyrics
[Verse]
Dusty shelves of canned good rows,
A shotgun leaning where the front door shows.
Cheap whiskey’s bite, a midnight sting,
Hand-rolled smokes make the porch light sing.
[Verse]
The air hangs heavy, a storm gonna break,
A hundred-dollar 8-ball, for my sins' sake.
A late-night phone call, voice cracked, unsure,
Hopes and promises I can't endure.
[Chorus]
Send my fan mail to my jail cell,
Where iron bars sing like a mourning bell.
Red dirt clings to my boots and my soul,
Living too fast, digging myself a hole.
[Verse]
A rusted truck out by the pine,
A memory I left in a blurry line.
Tasted freedom in the middle of a fight,
But it burned like moonshine beneath the neon light.
[Verse]
A devil’s bargain, a sinner's parade,
A backroad map of my mistakes I've made.
Every verse I write’s another confession,
Each word a scar, a hard-learned lesson.
[Chorus]
Send my fan mail to my jail cell,
Where iron bars sing like a mourning bell.
Red dirt clings to my boots and my soul,
Living too fast, digging myself a hole.
Details
GeneratedApr 16, 2025
Duration2:45
LanguageEnglish
Style
acoustic, male vocals, country, gritty
Credits
Prompt by
BottomlandBeats
BottomlandBeatsModelAria v4
Prompt
Red dirt country sang by male
Sing about:
Canned goods and shotguns
Cheap whiskey and hand rolled cigarettes
100 dollar 8-balls and late night phone calls
Send my fan mail to my jail cell
