Long In the Tooth

A bit of words

Collection of postcards from all the places that he goes
he wishes she was with him
writes weekly to remind her how much in his life she fares

But all those hundreds of postcards
Well he never even sent them
And they collect dust inside a cigar box
on a bookshelf by the stairs

He has seen the sites and lived the life
He always dreamed of as a kid
But could never convince himself
That he was worthy to deserve it

And he sometimes pines for simpler times
when he held her by the river hand in hand side by side
skipping stones and reciting verses they put all of their stock in
while whiling away the days when they were young and in love

They both have got on in years and collected fears of growing old
Like baseball cards and comic books everybody owns
but no one's going to buy and asking what the f**k man then what's the bloody point

But then that song will come on the radio and a light sparks in her eye
and she remembers the first time they kissed
and how warm it made her feel inside
and just for a moment wishes she could feel that very same way again tonight

But many seasons have changed
things have gotten strange and they understand
it could never be the same

but there's hope for a future greater than the past
and maybe they will meet there
if they can stumble onto that same path
the way they were able when they
turned over all the tables on the gamblers that bet that they wouldn't last a month

Well that month it multiplied and grew larger like the blob
and now it's been through a generation and it leads an angry mob
of lovers and dreamers and poets and frauds
depending exactly which side of the debate
you happen to find yourself upon

a wise man once told me the difference between foolishness and bravery
depends on how the press decide to spin the story
so press coverage is important but the journalists they bore me
sycophantic lepers and pop-culture vultures
intent on wringing every bit of life out of works of wisdom
and sculptures built with words

I'm not sure what bravery has to do with broken hearts - remorse
regrets and losses and an odd run at the cards
perhaps i got a little sidetracked as I'm often want to do
when i hear their tragic story and it makes me think of you

they've gone and turned their way
and maybe that is best - i know it doesn't seem that way
when still so far from rest

laying in bed in a foreign land gripping pictures of a memory
that you hope would never end
or at least like cable tv syndication might relive again

Preferably without commercials so you can indulge in every line
of witty banter broken by translations lost in time
and make attempts to grasp the concept -
sometimes they can be obtuse
Buy it a pint and cordially shake it's hand just as you would do
for a long lost friend returning from a war
you were convinced they'd been lost in many years ago

And then you'll think of the postcards
and the mental souvenirs
collected in your memory for untold many years
and you'll scoff at the present
and cherish the past and regale the future
with dreams that you knew you never had

all the while skipping stones and whiling away the day
wishing you were still young and in love
with the world and it crazy crazy ways