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
