Old

Old

Most old rednecks don’t text… They’d rather talk with their fists

Those old cowboys don’t email… They’d rather knock you into hell

Some old veterans don’t ask why… And you’ll rarely see them cry

Do old priests ever feel deceived… Or do they just blindly believe

Most old widows aren’t afraid to die… So they can look into his eyes

All old farmers love hard work… They love the smell of plowed dirt

Most old prostitutes die alone… Without a place they call home

Some old convicts don’t need anyone… And fear the light of freedom

Do old hobos want a home… Or just freedom and warm clothes

Will the old me still like me… Or feel deceived by the younger me

Will the old me see undone things… Un-truths and false beliefs

The one damn thing I believe… Old is a strange damn place to be