Frank Turner
Scavenger Type
[Verse 1]
Sitting alone at the bottom of the hill
Our protagonist named Bill
Sets his sights on an anchor steam pint
All he needs is thirteen quarters
Congregated in his hat

[Verse 2]
A crow, a scavenger type
California redemption provides him with his rent
Room and board inside of a fifth of comfort

[Verse 3]
The coins don't drop consistent as does the mercury
His meter slows, realizing a zenith
He's reached perfection
No one did see him die
No one did see him die
No one did see him die