(Not yet titled)
I went to an Auction on the bad side of town
Cross the railroad tracks and on down around
Round the river’s bend to the house where the Colonial once lived
The Colonial fought battles with his demons, his bottle battled back.
But, slowly it turned on him and attacked.
The story ending like it did was inevitable, I suppose.
And now the county was selling his home, said everything had to go.
It goes to pay the tax man what the tax man is owed.
Now it felt like a sin when I walked in.
To see it was more than just possessions that they were selln’
His memories in pictures were framed and ,now, tangible to touch.
Laid on these shelves just building up dust.
There was a Purple Heart for the lead that was still there in his hip;
the cane he used and his permanent limp.
There was a plaque from the local Lion’s club
from 89, 90, and 91.
A picture of the Colonial saluting the flag.
And of him with his family, a family no one knew he had.
The man I thought was just a drunk whom life had thrown a curve.
Was special to someone before taking a wrong turn
and before loosing control and before jumping the curb.
Framed and for sale now were the years before the fall
And for just a few misdeeds I had judged them all
Theses pictures told stories of the good within these walls.
I could not bear to see what I knew not run free.
I would not want my legacy dying with me.
So I stole the pictures that were there on the shelf.
They meant nothing to no one so I took ‘em for myself.
Oh, you can’t put a dollar sign on that man’s life.
Memories can’t be sold for any kind of price.