It is not everyday that someone turns and says to you..."I wasn't ever a crackhead, eh, until I turned fifty..." Although it isn't everyday, such things are becoming a bit more frequent in recent weeks. It got me thinking about some of the stories I have been hearing lately. I took some time this week, while sitting with my guitar, to put pen to paper. Here is a first draft of some lyrics that are a bit of an amalgamation of the stories I have been hearing as of late.
Minus five, with windchill minus twenty,
Counting all the bottles that I find,
Can't wear gloves when counting people's empties,
Numb, I left my dignity behind.
Up at four and out before the sunrise,
Toughest means to thirty buck I know,
Hard to sleep in loud and drafty shelters,
Up and out onto the streets I go.
I was never a crackhead 'till I turned fifty,
At fifty-three I'm all messed up it's true,
New Year's Day and time for resolutions,
At fifty-three what can I do?
Is this the year that I come through?
I'm fifty-three and all messed up its true.
Lost my job it's coming up on four years,
Broke my back and couldn't work the same,
Lost my money, pride and all my purpose,
Just one hit to ease me of the pain.
Sunken face beyond all recognition,
Now Niagara Gorge runs cross my face,
Skin and Bones and Yellowish complexion
Where there was a smile just gaps and space
I was never a crackhead 'till I turned fifty,
At fifty-three I'm all messed up it's true,
New Year's Day and time for resolutions,
At fifty-three what can I do?
Is this the year that I come through?
I'm fifty-three and all messed up its true.
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