Thinking about heaven, thinking about everything
So be waiting by those gates, you might need to sneak me in
I don’t know how they feel about us accidental killers
I don’t know how they feel about us tired old men
I don’t know how they feel about us tired old murdering men
He said ‘I know an old farmer doesn’t trust the bank
Keeps his money buried out behind his water tank
He told me once when he was out of his mind’
‘Oh boys our time has come
To live among the privileged ones’
I am the man on stage slurring your favourite songs.
Making up a few of the words as I go along.
Taking the edge off of me
Is a necessity when I’m singing these words that I no longer mean.
I am not a poet, I’m a broken heart
And though you didn’t dispute it, I don’t really play the part.
I am not dishonest, I’m a lost detail
Leaving out the good words to hide my trail.
The bearer of bad news is talking to the breeze
Floating forth the message
Hiding in the trees
The weary voice inside you is darker in the night
The healing hand
The morning light
While you’re out wasting time with the right guy
With the right guy
