Last night I heard this old guy play guitar
He could push you with the music. He could take you far
But he would push you with his right hand
and always hide his left
I just had one question for him, “Mister,
Have you ever been convicted of theft?”
Cause He’d (They’d) say “This one’s close to dying
This one’s fine
This one’s past the turning point.
He’s crossed the line.”
Now he was awful good at triage,
that’s for sure,
But he was long on diagnosis,
and short on cure.
A long-winded conversation in a dorm room late at night
Not so much about the truth as whether you said it right
I raised the prospect of hope eternal. I was laughed at and scorned.
They rolled their eyes like dice on a table
But their number was forlorn.
Now, you can take your chance
Beat your fists on the boards of despair
You end up with splinters in your knuckles
thinking, “unjust, unfair.”
Or you can fall on the altar of sadness
and call for the knife.
But either way you’re just denying your hearing.
Put your ear to God’s chest, and clearly
it’s the pulse of life.
Now you been close dying
In fact you’ve crossed the line
You done sailed right past the turning point,
thinking everything’s fine
But when the gas runs out
and your sitting there stone cold
You think, “I was young when all this started
Now I’m old.”
But when the doctor pushes the triage crew aside
he says, “You’re all long on diagnosis
short on cure.”
And he turns to you and says,
“Come on, Darlin’ we can make this
Yes, I’m sure.”