he was a young man - shades on, shirt open,
half smile, leaning forward with a strong grip,
hard knuckles holding his motorcycle helmet.
now he is an old man - in the shade, undershirt,
false smile, leaning forward with a wrinkled hand,
bruised knuckles holding an empty pint glass.
it wasn't his fault he'd tell himself
there was no war for him to wage
until he found a liquid rage within him
and his mind and muscles burned
he'd raise a fist and a crowd could cower
he'd raise a fist and his wife would shudder
now he raises a fist, but has to swing
it wasn't his fault he'd tell himself
they say the ladies loved him and so did he
when he wasn't looking in the mirror,
in the short frame, where he was framed
he'd see his reflection taking shots
and after a fierce firefight she left him
and she left him without a son
it wasn't his fault he'd tell himself
he fought and tried to find a way and found
liquid courage got him through the day
until he was black out behind a bike shed
his name blurred by hers carved in the wall
the cold ground and their old school fades
to tubes in his arm, laying in a hospital bed
it wasn't his fault he'd tell himself
