Iron and Rust The progression began at the top of the hill, In the same place where he took that bad spill. They waited ‘til sunset and then threw him down. on his favorite lookout ten miles from town. Stan reached in his shirt and pulled out his harp. Nobody cared if he blew a little fat or sharp. A couple from Montana showed off their jig. I grabbed a grass seat and chewed on a twig. A man was drinking as much as he cussed. A suitcase of neglect no one could trust And no heart could tame his wanderlust He owned a face of iron and rust. The moon was an oyster back at the barn. Time to get wet and time for a good yarn. The bottles were passed, one to the other. Everyone there was a sister or a brother. A few of us stayed and crashed in the hay A bunch of others were already miles away. How do you figure that this man is now gone? I can’t help but think that his soul rides on. He’d say, “It ain’t nothing if it ain’t a must,” with a road hog that leaves a wake of dust. All them years, I knew his word I could trust. He owned a face of iron and rust.
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