When he was young he was a rover.
He raked those fields of purple clover,
Raced the moon the whole world over,
Climbed the top of the hickory trees.
But now he’s old, his body’s crumbling,
Through the misty mountains stumbling,
Amidst the sound of a thunder rumbling,
You’ll find him weeping on his knees.

When he was young, he was a singer.
In every pot he’d stick his finger,
Keeping careful not to linger.
No regrets and no mistakes.
But now he’s old, he’s burned his bridges,
Having slept with wicked witches,
Having ripped out all his stitches,
No one to mend him when he breaks.

When he was young, a true believer,
He said he’d be a great achiever
And swore in blood he’d never leave her,
But something spoils the best-laid plans.
So now he’s old, alone, forgotten,
He sees himself as misbegotten,
His precious fruit has all turned rotten,
The ones he loved slipped through his hands.

When he was young, his heart was burning.
He filled his days with restless yearning,
Just like the sea forever churning,
Too much to touch, too much to taste.
But now he’s old, with no tomorrow,
There’s no more time that he can borrow,
His tongue can only taste his sorrow.
There’s nothing left for him to waste.