Not Anymore My grandfather Lance was a hundred-and-two In Sedona Arizona where the red rocks said Though old enough to die you must live instead Just what he would do because he was a poet too My father the hitman was seventy-five A poet like his son at sixty-one still alive In a hideaway in the Hi-Desert here A reasonable madman in a season of fear But my grandfather Gibson was thirty-four Because he was a tough guy who lived his life too fast Like any of many after and before Presented with his past by that knocking at the door Johnny the Barber whose luck ran out at last When though he was a tough guy death said not anymore Steven Curtis Lance   Photo: Guy Lance, my grandfather.