Consider me harmless — a simple old man
with words on his hands, and little time to say them.
Because this harvest is in,
and that’s what I am.
Imagine the pain that made them,
then play them — if not once, then maybe again.
For the good times, that some think are bad,
and for the bad, which turn out to be good.
For the first time you laughed,
and the last that I cried, then rose from the dead.
And this is the dream I have, the blind preacher says —
to go out, and know that I’m in.