Song for the Old Man

How much sand in your boots? How much dry bread in teeth? Everyday is the longest day Or maybe the day you will never forget God didn't save you from the lack of a rich, rich marriage Nor your dictator saved you from the big glorious war But maybe you were saved just Because you never, never believed No saint has guided your wrinkled hand But one hundred whores has driven your shining cars I will sing my worst South American song at your funeral My old man I will sing my worst South American song at your funeral My old man I will sing my worst South American song at your funeral My old man I will sing my worst South American song at your funeral Twenty years in the tropics One hundred years of regrets Life is too long to repent And too short to deify the bitterness Your ironed shirt, your brushed hair Your perfect dye go beyond Every political conviction And against every class-fight I loved your style and your hatred for Your hatred for mediocrity God will not give you an honored place But he will envy your shined shoes I will sing my worst South American song at your funeral My old man I will song my worst South American song at your funeral My old man I will sing my worst South American song at your funeral My old man I will sing my worst South American song at your funeral My old man I will sing my worst I will sing my worst I will sing my worst I will sing my worst I will sing my worst I will sing my worst I will sing my worst I will sing my worst I will sing my worst I will sing my worst I will sing my worst I will sing my worst South American song, oh i will Oh i will Oh i will Oh i will Oh i will Oh i will I will I will