Her smoke moves like Spanish moss, Blue-gray tendrils intertwining Around the shining plastic beads slung low on her wrist, As she takes another liberal sip from her Budweiser bottle and does her best to ignore the man she came here with tonight, he's telling the barmaid about how he got the scar on his right cheek, And I know parts of their story, But the thing that troubles me most Is that I'll never know how it ends.