Curtain Call
This is all a curtain call,
a vagabond’s nightly bow.
Their spiraling span of attention serves no ovation
—-they’re not clapping; still the show must go on.
The show must go on.
This is all a note to self,
Liberty’s warning bell:
You may never achieve that selfish set of goals,
like a Christmas list you’ll never afford.
There’s a mirror in the music.
There’s a cycle in the song.
And if this old road won’t take me home,
I’ll make my own.
I’ll keep on keepin’ on.
This is my sin; this is my confession.
A dishonorable mention:
I’m well aware of how poorly I display
the ideals that I write, sing, and say.
This might be my eulogy,
the Natural Man’s final plea:
“Drink and be merry! For, tomorrow, we all die!
It wasn’t the righteous path, but it was a hell-of-a ride!
A hell-of-a ride!”
There’s a mirror in the music.
There’s a cycle in the song.
And if this old road won’t take me home,
I’ll make my own.
I’ll keep on keepin’ on.
‘Cause the world’s gonna spin with or without you.
When this poor poet passes, it won’t make the news.
There’s no such thing as the white-collar blues,
Just prescription refills, and a stock market muse.
“We all fall in line—-what else can you do!?”
You can take my advice, and make your own truth.
There’s a glamour in the gospel.
There’s a sorrow in its slaves.
And if this old soul can’t be sold,
Let it be saved!
Or I’ll dig my own goddamn grave.
‘Cause all you have to do is die,
the rest you can choose.
By accident or design,
The Mourning will find you.
Yet, I’ve read every line,
and I’m still so confused
on Whose flag to fly
And Whose car to cruise.
I’ve given each a test drive,
but couldn’t make the commute,
‘cause Your maps don’t reply
—-Oh mysterious muse!
All I have to do is die,
but, aw, what’s the use!?
I can’t find my mind;
There’s nothing left to lose.
