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.