From a famous tattered sleevenhe pulls the ace of innocencenKills another fifth of WhiskeynSwears it's self defensenHe stares down the big bar mirrornAlmost a tear in his eyenOne last quick-draw with the bottlenWhats a tired way to diennAll these little cowboysnMaking the scenenScreaming 'Bloody Mary'nInto their answering machinesnThey're all suckers for a heartachenThey sleep on sticks-n-stonesnAlll these little cowboysnCan't leave bad enough alonennNow the 8-ball's justa chasernFor the Dimerol and speednAll you could ever ask fornIs never all they neednSo they settle for the bottomnAnd they make for the doornAll these little cowboysnBreak like someone's keeping scorennAll these little cowboysnMaking the scenenScreaming 'Bloody Mary'nInto their answering machinesnThey're all suckers for a heartachenThey sleep on sticks-n-stonesnAlll these little cowboysnCan't leave bad enough alonennNow his boots are caked with stardustnAnd she's soaked his shirt in tearsnAll his shit's out on the front lawnnIt's the best time he's felt in yearsnCause now its home no the rangenAnd it's home on the dashnNowhere's where the heart isnHe just needs a place to crashnnAll these little cowboysnMaking the scenenScreaming 'Bloody Mary'nInto their answering machinesnThey're all suckers for a heartachenThey sleep on sticks-n-stonesnAlll these little cowboysnCan't leave bad enough alone