The old man was sitting on the tailgate of a 62 Ford flatbed,
picking on an old guitar
when he looked at me and he said,
the engine's dead.
It was a good run,
son,
as he strummed a melancholic chord.
Now I've got nothing but time to kill until the coming of the Lord.
Well,
he played me a few songs,
one about a Randall knife,
one about a train,
one about the pain of losing the love of his life.
He took a puff of that cigarette,
blew a breath of smoke that could smother.
He said they always said that these would kill me and they did.
Then he laughed and lit another.
He said,
I hear that you write songs,
boy,
play me one that I might know.
So I sang him my latest,
greatest hit,
a number one on music row.
He stopped me before I could finish the verse,
said,
I think I've heard enough of that.
When you've heard one,
you've heard them all with the grimace of a grin.
He took his old guitar back.
He said, I guess that's all right.
If that's all you've got to give,
if that's all you've got to say in this one life you've got to live.
There's no meaning in your melody,
so predictable and weak,
wasted words and shallow rhymes.
I'd rather hear a woman cuss me a blue streak.
You see,
the pencil to the pad is like the bullet to the gun.
The pen is mightier than the sword if the
words are forged from fire from the sun.
Yet some do it for the fame,
the fun,
the money and all the glory.
Yet some do it for their weary soul
won't rest until they tell their story.
You got to make them feel what you feel,
help them dream a dream and make them wonder.
It's like catching lightning in a bottle,
make them smell the rain and hear the thunder.
Let them taste the tears of joy or the bitter sweet taste of sin.
Find the passion in a four letter word or a Sunday morning.
Amen.
Then he flicked his ashes and he pointed at my heart,
said if you're searching for solid gold,
that'd be a real good place to start.
Let the words speak for themselves.
Tell the truth,
right or wrong,
and bear your soul for all to see.
All for the sake of the song.