I don't care if country music's dead I'm just tryin' to make it 'til tomorrow You're makin' it all up inside your head That must be some awful kind of sorrow These days everybody's makin' money Off bitter hooks as fast-flute melodies Prayin' for the floor seems so funny And the only one that's listenin' is the trees I like cheap guitars and cigarettes And diner food that tastes just like my mother's For a hundred bucks we'll play another set And a case of beer to take home after hours You can take a line from one of mine and make it rhyme We'll keep the fire from burnin' out A room full of talkin' Don't know what we're talkin' about I don't care if country music's dead I just live a life of breakin' even She's makin' it all up inside her head The one I wrote in G keeps her from leavin' These days everybody sings along But you don't have to prove to me you know it In fact, it's probably someone else's song And I don't have to prove to you I wrote it I like cheap guitars and cigarettes Someday soon they'll both try to kill me Might as well sell a few cassettes To anyone who'll pay to listen to me You can take a line from one of mine and make it rhyme We'll keep the fire from burnin' out A room full of talkin' Don't know what we're talkin' about Money is as money does And money goes away so we keep buyin' Easy come and easy go But easy ain't the way so we keep tryin' I don't care if country music's dead I'm just trying to make it 'til tomorrow You're making it all up inside your head That must be some awful kind of sorrow