This, the story of a man who wasn’t really there
But for the few folk who took the time to spare
Not so many witnessed as time moved on
All okays corralled and the high noons gone
Cowboy drifts with his tumbleweeds
Spurs stumbling forth with a tongue that bleeds
Yet some proceed to call it a bunch of B
With an S at the end for a stunted creed
Saloon doors creak and his gun is rusted
Where rust stays creeping with a hundred judgements
Bullet in the chamber, saved for the last shot
Funds running dry and a plague hit the cash crop
Scarecrow went and left for greener pastures
All that’s left is a brittle stick, bleak and fractured
Vultures stay spinning those same old yarns
Like remember back when, when times were charmed
Back then anyone down was a black sheep
Land of the snow where the prose took a back seat
Examining the reach of each famine and its feast here
Feels like every other week is a leap year
Lose another day, bruise in a subtle way
Elusive and truth is the proof in a puddle, gray
Puke has a stench that can serve reminders
From pursuits of a golden night left behind them
Yesterday is a time that could have been redone
With a little change here, a picture getting re hung
Portrait of a Dorian Grey, replay and become
Dying in a glorious blaze, survey a tree trunk
Having given all to an aged soul
Because life’s a lost cause for those who crave control
Basically, the goal is hold on tight and let the ride start
Poison blood running to the arteries from my heart

I’m getting old in my old age
What was once life now fades away

Centerpiece dreams always end up as the sidebar
A grudge is the only thing that ever seems to die hard
Memories that haunt and motivate the calm to blind rage
Then lady justice tries with a like gauge
Lion in the spring, should have died in wintertime
Mane’s growing mange and a slowness is intertwined
Wincing as limbs try to do what they once did
Joy to a job as a clock getting punched in
One spin too many around the block
Wringing hands in a trance, reddened, down and lost
and when he found the cost, it seems he couldn’t afford it
buying the farm, then went and put in a mortgage
cooking up a crooked assortment for one soul
And the rest of his tale is simply untold
cooking up a crooked assortment for one soul
And the rest of the tale is simply untold

I’m getting old in my old age
What was once lithe now turns to gray
I’m getting old in my old age
What was once life now fades away