Tuesday, April 14, 2009

It's a good life, we ain't dead yet....

he was sitting there,
looking beat down
with his ripped shirt,
shootin’ whiskey down,

he looked like he,
had all he could stand,
with his muddy boots,
and his callused hands.

the scars on his face,
told the story how,
his hard working days,
knocked his life around,

when his beer was done,
he ordered another round,
looked over at me,
and started to smile.

through his missin’ teeth,
he looked at me and said
it’s a good life,
we ain’t dead yet.

I am here until I die,
and for that,
how could I dare to cry,
I get to live,
to see another day,
to kiss my wife,
to see my children play.

so through it all.
the good and the bad,
my life is great,
I won’t be sad,
I’ve earned my scars,
I can’t be upset
It’s a good life,
I ain’t dead yet


these calluses,
I’m thankful for,
and hopefully before I die,
I’ll get to have some more,

these muddy boots,
are a tribute to,
the type of work,
I was born to do,
this ripped shirt,
was a hand me down,
wore by my grandfather,
who built this town

I could sit here and whine,
about what I don’t have,
about how hard it is,
or where I am

but why would I,
curse this path,
that put me here,
where I could stand
on my own two feet,
so proud to say,
my life is great,
I wouldn’t want it any other way

I am here,
until I die
and for that,
how could I cry
I get to live,
to see another day,
to kiss my wife,
to see my children play

so through it all,
the good and the bad
my life is great,
I won’t be sad
I’ve earned my scars,
I can’t be upset,
it's a good life,
we ain't dead yet

Vacations in the Bottle

drinkin’ was a way of life,
in the backwoods town that I call home,
a place where a man wasn’t judged by the car he drove,
but the calluses on his hands, and the liquor he could hold.
and a place where Sunday mornings,
the pew’s were full, but so were the bar stools.

a town of hard working men,
who wake up not afraid to meet the challenges of the day,
but when you grow up climbing mountains,
I guess life can only be survived if your built that way.

family ties were tight and true,
there was nothing that a brother wouldn’t do,
a neighbor helped a neighbor out,
and that’s what life was all about,
in this little piece of heaven,
where I was raised,

but just as god had gifted the land,
with beauty of the mountains, rivers, valleys he painted with his own hands,
the devil couldn’t let the souls there live in peace,

he planted seeds of insecurities,
selfish pride, and materialistic dreams,
to make the people think their lives weren’t that grand.

then he stocked the shelves with liquor, so they could drink away their pain.

vacations in a bottle,
a place where a man can go, to go away.
to forget about his problems,
and the bills he has to pay.

these vacations in a bottle,
could help a man out from time to time.
but a man can quickly drown,
when they become a way of life.


so I guess this is the battle,
each man’s been facing since the dawn of time.
the top of the mountain and the bottom of the bottle,
are what a man is destined to find,
which one is up to him and Jesus,
and the rest of the story will only be told by time.

vacations in a bottle,
a place where a man can go, to go away.
to forget about his problems and the bills he has to pay.
these vacations in a bottle,
could help a man out from time to time.
but a man can quickly drown,
when they become a way of life.

He said they call me hippy,

he said they call me hippie',
as he sat down next to me,
he said I don’t need much in life,
I just love being free,

he said my name is hippie',
and I'm from' another time,
where people did things for purpose,
not just to chase' another dime.


at first I sat there thinking',
oh shit, here we go,
but after just a few minutes,
our conversation began to flow,

he told me he was born in this city,
before it grew so large,
then he moved out to the country,
where over his own life, he could be in charge,

I laughed and said, ain’t it funny,
my story is reverse,
I grew up in the mountains,
but that slow life I cursed,

I moved out here chasing' money,
and a change from those slow ways,
now I wake up missing the mountains,
each and every day.

Fiddle Solo....

our conversation stretched on for hours,
covering everything and nothing at all,
politics, religion,
pickin’ mushrooms in the spring,
leaves changing in the fall.

he said I don’t trust big government,
and where this country is headed,
I raised up my glass of PBR,
and said… man you just said it!

Fiddle Solo....

he story went on about rebuilding a town after a hurricane,
a pop up camp town in Alabama,
like living life out on the range,

we toasted to entrepreneurship,
as he told me about the way,
he earned extra money bootlegging for the thirsty laborers,
at the end of long hard days,

a dry town with a 5 o’clock curfew,
required someone to take a dare.
to get to the highway, required a 4 wheel drive, a little luck, and a prayer.

he said they call me hippie,
as he sat down next to me,
he said I don’t need much in life,
I just love being free,

he said my name is hippie,
I am from another time,
where people did things for purpose,
not just to move things down the line.


after what seemed like just moments,
but what took up most my day,
I turned and said to hippie,
I gotta get on my way,

I said till next time hippie',
thanks for sitting down next to me,
I said thank you to hippie',
for reminding me what it means to be free.

I told the bartender one more for hippie',
I have to be gettin' on my way,

and as I rose up from my bar stool,
I thanked God for Sunday mornings, good conversation, guys named hippie', and PBR at Cowboy Cafe.