Stupid stories of me, Randy Cross (no one special. Just an eccentric Southern artist, and weirdo sissy boy) growing up in the 70's and 80's.
Mama told me a story my whole life. After she died I was told a different story. Did Mama lie to cover her tracks?
Excuse the snot sniffles. I had just sneezed before recording this. Anyway, this is a story about a ghost visiting Mama asking for matches. SPOOKY!