Folklore

We'll all become saints someday
When our bodies give out and our lives are based on what other people say
"She was so kind - lived so carefree"
Now she's long gone and has little input in this verbal biography

And so goes the tale of a dying moon
Pale and blue and eclipsed all too soon
In this celestial sea that is capsizing
There's the certainty you will someday become
Folklore

I drink all these spirits in
Get drunk off the air, hiccup, then despair
That I never knew any of them
The bar grows cold; all my friends leave
Try to order one more then collapse on the floor
As I join them without reprieve

And everybody dies with a thirsty mouth
An unsightly pout before time runs out
But if you die bold with a belly that's full
There's the certainty you will someday become
Folklore

A vessel that's filled right up to the gills
A sweet serenade leaving a trail of chills
A time bomb that ticks to nobody's fears
A collection of triumphs that surpass it's years
A big stroke of light filling up one brief night
A love that can fight until the day it dies
A series of truths, not some stories and lies
That you leave behind before you become nothing more than
Folklore.