Well, she married a millionaire by the time she was seventeen
|
But she soon got tired of competing with the bourgeois scene
|
For her twenty-first birthday, he bought her a French resort
|
The very next day, she spent in divorce court
|
Now she's living like a queen, in her dirty blue jeans
|
She started hanging out with a shady mob
|
Who always seemed to have lots of money
|
But none of them had jobs
|
She'd only read about drugs in the magazines
|
But once she got a taste of this expensive cuisine
|
She had to sell most everything, except her dirty blue jeans
|
|
They sent her to some bar that she'd never been before
|
It was the only place that time of day she could score
|
The cops busted in and caught her trying to leave
|
With five grams of smack stuffed up inside her sleeve
|
And an ounce of mescaline in her dirty blue jeans
|
|
Six months at the clinic like some derelict drunk
|
A thousand bucks a day to get her off that junk
|
Spent all the cash that she'd won in the divorce
|
But she could always marry another rich boy, of course
|
Now she's living real clean in her dirty blue jeans
|
|
-----------------
|
Dirty Blue Jeans
|
| Cletis Carr |
