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
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.