The first time I heard you I was wasted, alone in a crowd of bearded boys. I couldn't hear so much as taste it billowing above the background noise. The next time I saw you, I knew better. So desperately, I tried to fill my lungs, even though my own trip up the ladder left me short a couple crucial rungs.

Well I guess it's lonely at the top. Or at least that's what I tell myself when I feel like giving up. You make it look easy enough, but you and I both know that second-hand success is tough.

I heard you killed 'em out in Gainesville. SRO in Tampa and St. Pete. And by the time you made it back to Lack-of-Actionville, you had the whole Panhandle at your feet. I read reviews of your show in Athens. They're singing your praises down to the keys. I can't explain just how it happens, but I'm clearly not the only one you've brought to his knees.

And now you claim your fame's become a problem. Well, it's safe to say it's always been for me; this whole damn town has bought your second album, while I'm still having trouble filling seats.