Who’s gonna buy this story years from now,
If I laid out just how damn incredible you are?
Though hell knows, this page’s just a faded snapshot, somehow,
Trying to cram the whole damn sky into a mason jar.
If I could write your eyes without sounding insane,
And tally every little thing that makes you you,
Folks would roll their eyes and mutter, “Yeah… sure, nice refrain.
Old guy’s full of shit. Nobody’s that true.”
They’d think my verses stretched the truth too far,
That no real soul could ever match this claim;
Heaven doesn’t hand out people built like you are,
So history would laugh and call it just a game.
But if your kid’s around when all that’s left is rhyme,
You’d get two damn lives—through them… and through my lines.
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