He’s got a tired face
At that shaky place
The gulf wind could pick him up a quarter note
But his wild eyes would just gaze out the swaying boat
As he looked for a port along the coast
A full measure he needed the most.
This ain’t workin’ out
A boy scout could see where this Indian is headed
Shades of green run in his eyes
Always thinkin’ of her blue eyes
Why, why, why
Sometimes he just wishes he could. . . . .
Of His Firm Pounding Rod.
Nothings easy any more
Opening and closing doors
Doing just his regular chores
Things that used to come easy
Keep him busy
As time slips away
Into a sinking sunset
Where the sky and the light and the ocean met
To form a speck of creation
And paid the debt in litigation.
La – de - da
Ha - ha - ha
He’s laughing all the way
Then crying the next day
There’s nothing to say
With eighth notes changing the tempo
And a full measure still to go.