He resides on the corner of drunk and desperation.
When your home life is vacant there's no need to take a vacation.
People point and call him vagrant, he prefers to be called a nomad,
but it's sunny out today, and the whiskey glow is not so bad.
He takes a slow drag from his hand rolled cigarette,
Stains adorn his clothes and beard, a mask to hide his intellect.
How could he forget about the better days and subplots?
You see, it's easy to get caught between starvation and gut rot.
His mother told him not what to do as a child.
"Never let your pride get defiled" she said, then shot him an awkward smile.
It's been a while since he caught the meaning in her words.
But now he knows what she knew then, so he laughs at the absurd.
Life is just a word, you can take it or leave it.
he's standing in the middle watching mother nature's cleavage.
And he can't believe it. An egg sandwich with extra pepper.
Cancer stole his vocal chords, so now he's writing letters.

There's no eraser on the back of a matchstick.
No eraser on the back of a matchstick, aint it tragic?
There's no eraser on the back of a matchstick.
No eraser on the back of a matchstick, aint it tragic?
There's no eraser on the back of a matchstick...
but we can't all be magic.

So he rode through that desert on a horse with a name,
the problem is he forgot it, it seems he'd rather change the topic.
Not to stop the conversation, or to start a confrontation.
(It) Seems he's trying to refrain from living a life of frustration.
So stay patient, 'cause he might get to the point soon,
After he rolls another joint, sits back, and enjoys doom.
You see, it's coming at high noon; who knows what that means?
While we read between the lines this dude has already lost his dreams.
It seems I heard the music stop or chance, it's kinda strange,
I remember it like it was yesterday, what a cliche.
He came to my home to speak to my father alone,
His voice box sounded like a broken microphone, so monotone.
When he left alone, he had no tears in his eyes to speak of,
After a week of not seeing him, he finally got clean cut.
Laying in a casket, it seems at last it's time to rest my friend.
I haven't known many good men, but we buried the best of them

There's no eraser on the back of a matchstick.
No eraser on the back of a matchstick, aint it tragic?
There's no eraser on the back of a matchstick.
No eraser on the back of a matchstick, aint it tragic?
There's no eraser on the back of a matchstick...
but we can't all be magic.