The Call

The 16th of November, 1963 That dreaded night, when everything changed, nothing was ever the same The 16th of November, 1963 Nothing was ever the same Drunken communion This was his Friday night Mass The broken preacher just as broken at home His hand was clutched around the Good Book (the other a shot glass) Flaming tongues preaching fireball and brimstone The shepherd lost his way back (he couldn't find his way back!) He allowed false idols on the throne (the flask), the flask with a golden calf It started slow One decision to next one He wasn't always this way He loved his wife, their son, another on the way A slippery slope, isolated alone Satan's kiss and whispers growing. Just one, no one would have to know Forbidden fruit, hanging low on the vine After all, he turned water into wine Drunken communion This was his Friday night Mass The broken preacher just as broken at home His hand was clutched around the Good Book (the other a shot glass) Flaming tongues preaching fireball and brimstone The shepherd lost his way back (he couldn't find his way back!) He allowed false idols on the throne (the flask), the flask with a golden calf He recalls his Father's words etched in stone on his heart grown cold Don't get a hold of something that can get a hold of you Don't get a hold of something that can get a hold of you Don't get a hold of something (a hold of something) that can get a hold of you Don't get a hold of something (a hold of something) that can get a hold of you He watched them Asleep, like trees, that swayed in lament The hush of the limbs As they break and they bend The sagging moss hung Like thoughts in his head The leaves on the ground Creating a bed, like tears that soaked their pillows Yet he left like the wind, blowing through the weeping willows Weeping willows