Atlanta, Georgia, the crossroads of your life

Every bottle has a story,

when he finally gave in again,

when the pain seeped up into his teeth,

when his hands started shaking,

and it wasn't worth being sober anymore.

Every bottle has a story,

when she came in and poured them out,

righteous, like a Baptist mother,

draining it onto the devil's head,

and he'd wondered where she hid her wings.

Every bottle has a story,

and it still hurt,

when the detox came,

but she held his head on her lap,

and whispered in his ear,

"Stop wasting time, stop wasting time,"

by drinking it away.