Old and satisfied, seven decades been plenty atime,
to live well, enough to tell,
some of what you wisht you'd done,

its prob'bly better thisaway.

That song never sung, when you were young,
you know
you still know
you had to know the whole story,
before you could tell it at all, just as well

nobody could know you were lying, about
all being well
'til the end.

They would have believed and followed me home,
had they heard me sing,
my wandering song
and known i live under stars as free as the breeze,

come and see, come and see, see it live on the air,
as if you were there
at the time.

Now, pick a flower, put it in your hair,
pretend you were there
at the time.
-----
Some stories told in vain
remain told,
never growing older than that first bright idea,
imagine you were there
at the time.

Child of mine, our kind,
we were born to survive the hard rain,
now
we waited fifty years for the ice all to melt,

and we laugh at fools who find
our broken radio silence
silent in times of great woe. I don't know but
as a spirit haunting liars,
I coulda been a contender, had I known.
I coulda lied,
and said I knew the reason for a thing,
proverbially as well as Solomon ever could have
at the time.
Nobody woulda known, but then, I mighta died.