SUMMER MONEY
©2018 CHRIS BUTLER/FUTURE FOSSIL MUSIC (BMI)

Now this old chair
In my backyard
Is my anywhere
For the next few hours

The summer sun
Is my only church
And from this pew
I pray for better flowers

Got the taste of heat
On the tip of my tongue
But itís liarís sweat
From a chore I should have done

Yes, I should mow the lawn
But itíll just grow back

I lick scoops of green
Thick as winter honey
Like summer money

31 flavors, all taste
like summer money.

Swinginí on the hinge
Where the seasons flip
I start losing light
And the brown begins

I curse its coming
That bruising
Slide to white

But I wonít trade
Places with anybody
Iíve got it made
Iíve got grace
Iíve got summer money.