Son
I was cowboy
Riding a clotheshorse in the prairie
Do you think I died in vain
To save the fatted calf
Under a dusty rain
To make America great again
Son
I was a commuter
On the Amtrak to Elizabeth
And I read the news of yesterday
And I went down and across
To crucify my words
Once back home to remain silent as a bone
Son
I was a wrestler
A face in a pink trunk
For the booker's fun
Just the under card of the deck
One more flat back bump and yet
Buried to death
No superhuman come back
Son
Now I'm a ghost
Reading Cicero on the patio
In an old corduroy
I am no one and nothing
But a wind up toy
But the unreal McCoy
I'm the unreal McCoy