Born on a Sunday, died on a Saturday night
There's not a man I know, who's had a better life
For 82 years, he made his way through the world
And I've got the proof, scattered here on the floor
Cuff links he wore, the day he wed
Standing in that church holding her hand
Some spare change in a coffee can
A pocket watch, some dog tags, and a gold wedding band
And I smile
As I sat there and thought
What would I hear
If only they could talk
If only they could talk
A lifetime of memories, heartache, love, and tragedy
Worn down by the hands of a working man, oh the things they've heard & seen
Oh the stories I would hear, if all this came to life
Would that saddle tell, of the hell, of driving cattle all those times
Or boots worn, so damn hard, he put holes right through the soles
Or the hat that blocked the sun & rain, as he watched his children (babies) grow
And then I saw it there, next to his old pocket knife
The words in red, and duct tape on the spine
Inside, the pages, the road map of his life
Were there to show the way, and leave the devil far behind
