The Pessimist Hangs The Optimist - The Old Man | Текст песни

• Тексты песен
• The Pessimist Hangs The Optimist
• The Old Man

A shot for every wasted year I’ve accomplished nothing, not one single thing to call my own, no words worth leaving, who would want to read them anyhow? Dust particles collecting on the picture frames are as thick as the bourbon is old, and the cracks that scale the wall act like a mirror highlighting every awkward flaw as I grow old. I entertain the prospect that I might die alone. Chance is slim that someone finds me before I’m reduced to bones. How could the end be happy?