Written and recorded in one day as part of the second Song Diary project, an exercise in holding on and letting go, April 16th (Easter) 2017 to April 15th (Tax Day) 2018.
lyrics
Shake. Shake. Shake. Shake.
You're getting up there.
You're not getting any younger.
Getting any younger.
Getting old.
Twenty-one: fun. So begun the out-and-out adventure,
in springtime and summer and fall and winter,
in every corner of the river, shining bright.
You’re brand new.
At twenty-two: voulez-vous. I wanted action in my twin bed.
A little sin in the middle when I'm spelling out my business.
Buy. Sell. What the hell. I'm tired of asking for everybody's permission.
I thought love was free? Please.
Twenty-three in a pear tree. I parted with my partridge family.
They won't ever really understand me, sadly.
It's like giving 3D glasses to the blind.
Getting, getting, getting old.
You're getting up there. You're not getting any younger.
Getting any younger.
Getting old.
Everybody shake. Shake. Shake
in the face of the grave. Shake. Shake. Shake.
Twenty-four, no more true or false sensation of security
in gated communities – what a narrow bow. And I am an arrow.
And the bullseye is everything under the sky…
Twenty five! (still alive)
But the brightest light dances on the edge of a shadow,
before you sink into sorrow thinking about how
every breath is borrowed. How yesterday was once tomorrow.
And that's a fact.
Twenty six: speed trap. Rats racing the miles between
who we are, marijuana piranhas, and who we want to be, shepherds
of smoke towing trembling engines over back roads
choked with lost souls stalling out
and getting old.
You're getting up there. You're not getting any younger.
Getting any younger.
Getting old.
Twenty-seven. Heaven can be used as a weapon,
where all the drugged out stars are using halos as tourniquets
in the bathroom at the Big Dance, going stag over the mantel,
smiling like pianos flushed into the sky.
Twenty-eight? It's not too late to trick death
as he picks flower and weed. So leave a trail of nails.
Glue some quarters to the floor. Pull a fast one, because
the only lap you needs to win is the last one.
Twenty-nine: when you're out of sand. Man,
you're probably also out of castles, with no shortage
of assholes. The sheriff walks in and asks "okay,
what's this all about?" I said "sheriff, it's about time!"
You're getting up there. You're not getting any younger.
Getting any younger.
Getting old.
You're getting up there. You're not getting any younger.
Getting any younger.
Getting old.
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