The Call

The 16th of November, 1963
That dreaded night, when everything changed, nothing was ever the same
The 16th of November, 1963

Nothing was ever the same

Drunken communion
This was his Friday night Mass
The broken preacher just as broken at home
His hand was clutched around the Good Book (the other a shot glass)
Flaming tongues preaching fireball and brimstone
The shepherd lost his way back (he couldn't find his way back!)
He allowed false idols on the throne (the flask), the flask with a golden calf

It started slow
One decision to next one
He wasn't always this way
He loved his wife, their son, another on the way
A slippery slope, isolated alone

Satan's kiss and whispers growing.
Just one, no one would have to know
Forbidden fruit, hanging low on the vine
After all, he turned water into wine

Drunken communion
This was his Friday night Mass
The broken preacher just as broken at home
His hand was clutched around the Good Book (the other a shot glass)
Flaming tongues preaching fireball and brimstone
The shepherd lost his way back (he couldn't find his way back!)
He allowed false idols on the throne (the flask), the flask with a golden calf

He recalls his Father's words etched in stone on his heart grown cold

Don't get a hold of something that can get a hold of you
Don't get a hold of something that can get a hold of you
Don't get a hold of something (a hold of something) that can get a hold of you
Don't get a hold of something (a hold of something) that can get a hold of you

He watched them
Asleep, like trees, that swayed in lament
The hush of the limbs
As they break and they bend

The sagging moss hung
Like thoughts in his head
The leaves on the ground
Creating a bed, like tears that soaked their pillows
Yet he left like the wind, blowing through the weeping willows

Weeping willows