As I sit in my chair, practicing the traditions of bowing, blessing my heir The thrown is now empty My body melts in the chair Drinking and reminiscing About the dynasty he created Feeling frustrated and worried about the memories fading The structure he built for this tower Is crackling down, we mourn this hour He was our power Now it's just all an overcast Our eyes are so blind we see more clear through a tall glass of Jack At this time we try hard to find Small signs That his spirit still rules the south And we're caught up in our own decisions I call it a frontal cottonmouth None of this could have been envisioned Because if I predicted the next steps He'd still be apart of our rhythm Dreams can fool even the slightest of good intentions Goodbye abuelito, until next time