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.
In the middle of the morn
Upon your words
But still in my slow beating heart
I’m not ashamed
Oh maybe I
In the rising morning light
Should be blamed
And so it seems
I will see you once again, in my dreams
It’s sort of strange
You only haunt me when I’m trying to leave you behind