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, know one would have to know

Forbidden fruit, hanging low on the vine

After all, He turned water to 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 that can get a hold of you

Don't get 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, oh