I have not much to live by
And less that I can call my own
We are all but small stories
Underneath the skin and bone.
This I know, this I know oh oh.
When we are dead and buried
The stories will be your own.
To whose ear will hear
The triumphs and angels playing thrones.
It comes, it comes, this I know oh oh.
For the grass cares little
But for the blowing of the wind
And your neighbor's ears are fickle
In and out again.
A friendly cat might prance on by
And lift a sassy tail to air
But upon the hearing of your story
Would stop, flirt and flair.
It goes away and comes again, this I know oh oh.
You could tell your friend
The stories you were able
But to them would be response
As if it were a fable.
It goes it goes, this I know oh oh.
And should our lives come to war or famine
And the stories turn from dirt and glutton
And crows feet come
To your eyes like beggars
This I know, this I know
The poets, preachers and painters
Are all but the same
And water comes freely from the river
Blood within your veins.
The truth will flow but only a little
To the prudish and disdain.