Folklore

We'll all become saints someday When our bodies give out and our lives are based on what other people say "She was so kind - lived so carefree" Now she's long gone and has little input in this verbal biography And so goes the tale of a dying moon Pale and blue and eclipsed all too soon In this celestial sea that is capsizing There's the certainty you will someday become Folklore I drink all these spirits in Get drunk off the air, hiccup, then despair That I never knew any of them The bar grows cold; all my friends leave Try to order one more then collapse on the floor As I join them without reprieve And everybody dies with a thirsty mouth An unsightly pout before time runs out But if you die bold with a belly that's full There's the certainty you will someday become Folklore A vessel that's filled right up to the gills A sweet serenade leaving a trail of chills A time bomb that ticks to nobody's fears A collection of triumphs that surpass it's years A big stroke of light filling up one brief night A love that can fight until the day it dies A series of truths, not some stories and lies That you leave behind before you become nothing more than Folklore.