I bought the paper yesterday and I saw the obituary
And I read of how you died in pain —
Well I just couldn’t understand it
If I could of changed that, then Lord knows I’d do it now
But there is no going back —
And what’s done is done forever
But you were always chained and shackled by the dirt —
Of every small town institution and every big town flirt
And I think of what you might have been,
a man of such great promise
Oh but, you seem to forget the dream —
And the more you saw you hated
But let’s not talk of blame, for what is only natural
Like a moth going to a flame —
You had a dangerous passion
But you were always chained and shackled by the dirt —
Of every small town institution and every big town flirt
All the things that you might have been — but who am I to say?
Still I wonder —
If it’s the cold earth you prefer to lay —
If it’s the cold earth — you prefer to stay