I told you your mother wouldn't like that -
she wouldn't like it if you lied -
lying about that dollar and a half -
the money I wouldn't give you
as I only wanted to buy you lunch.
If you'd told me what you wanted
was a dollar and a half for booze
I might likely have obliged
and helped you tie one on.
Honesty goes a long way -
longer than a cheese sandwich.
So I told you your mother wouldn't like you lying,
and to make her happy you should tell the truth.
So after I departed
it was the next fool who came along
who gave you the money
for the 64-ouncer
that you took home to dear old mom.
You never got that bottle back to mom,
to your dirty old flat across the tracks
right next to the place run by nuns.
You never got to hear her say
“thank you so – my good and truthful son.”
You didn't spend the afternoon with dear old mom,
getting tanked and smoking cigarettes
traded for food stamps.
You never saw her smile at you like she always did
because the meth lab fire next door took out the whole place,
and the truth came out,
and the truth came out.
And dear old mom wound up behind bars.
