[Verse 1: Smoky contralto female MC, low and slow-burning over the swung live drums] Back room of a takeout on Eighth Avenue I fold the little cookies and I write what's true Owner pays me cash for the fortunes and the folds Eleven dollars an hour and the stories that I hold Every Friday seven-thirty there's a man in a gray coat Orders number forty, extra duck sauce, same note Eats it at the counter with a paperback and tea Never looks up once, never once looked at me So I wrote him a fortune and I set it on the pile A stranger will surprise you if you look up for a while [Hook: Smoky contralto female MC] Lucky numbers on the back, and you play them every week Seven little digits and you never thought to speak You been feeding them to the lottery and losing every time Baby, those were never numbers, those were mine [Verse 2: Smoky contralto female MC, the jazz guitar leaning in] Didn't work, so I got bolder with the numbers on the back Where they print the lucky numbers, I put mine in the stack Seven digits on the slip and I folded it in tight Heard him crack it at the counter and I didn't sleep that night Next Friday he was smiling and I swear I almost spoke Then he told the owner, I been playing them, I'm broke He'd been buying lottery tickets with my number every draw Three months at the corner store, the saddest thing I ever saw Every loss he'd come back hungry in the same old gray coat Every week I folded harder and I wrote the same note [Hook: Smoky contralto female MC] Lucky numbers on the back, and you play them every week Seven little digits and you never thought to speak You been feeding them to the lottery and losing every time Baby, those were never numbers, those were mine [Bridge: Smoky contralto female MC, seven digits, one digit on every kick while the band holds still] Five Five Five Oh One Nine Oh [Verse 3: Smoky contralto female MC, the drums back, a slow smile in the voice] So I walked out from the back with the flour on my sleeve Took the cookie from his hand before he had the chance to leave Turned it over on the counter, put my finger on the line Said that isn't luck, mister, that's a phone, and it's mine He went red like the lanterns that they hang above the door Said I thought it was a sign, I said that's what signs are for Now he calls me every Friday and he doesn't even eat And I write the fortunes sweeter for the strangers on the street [Final Hook: Smoky contralto female MC] Lucky numbers on the back, and you play them every week Seven little digits and you never thought to speak You been feeding them to the lottery and losing every time Baby, those were never numbers, those were mine [End]
