Well, at the memorial service for old Mr. Van,
The vagrants, they sat, and the gods made to stand.
And the preacher did whisper in the lone usher’s ear,
“Gypsies up front, please. All press in the rear.”
And his mother, the mountain, she knelt down in prayer.
While his father, the sky, he cursed at the air.
And the preacher asked mercy for all Van had done wrong,
Sayin’, “He done it, my friends, for the sake of the song.”

Well, the press sought out quotes from all the right people,
And the church bells, they sang like birds from the steeple.
As Van’s best friend stood with his face all aglow,
Sayin’, “We should-a booked this gig more than 30 years ago.”
And the wind came a-howlin’ off that lone river line,
As the preacher took a belt of his sacrificial wine.
And he told all the mourners, “Take heed now. Be strong.
For here lies a man who would die for his song.”

Now the women came a-walkin’ in a single-file line.
Led by a schoolgirl with pigtails and lips like red wine.
Next came the maidens with eyes made of rain,
Who threw down their roses and cursed old Van’s name.
And the coal miner’s daughter, she said with a sigh,
“I remember old Van with a shine in his eye.
He gave me 10 bucks once, just to help me along.
And he said that my pain would make a great song.”

Now the landlord, he stood with his vintage corsage,
Sayin’, “For years Van parked his car inside my garage.
His Sad Cinderellas, well, they were raised by Queen Jane,
And his daydreams of Maria drove Johanna insane.
But now all I’ve got is a trunk full of blues,
Folk legends of ramblin’, and gamblin’, and booze.
And the only way I can think to repay him for that,
Is to bury his bones ’neath my leather-skin cap.
He once told me livin’ was like night without dawn,
And the only way through was to keep playin’ on.”

Well, in walked the outlaw with spurs spinnin’ round.
Stepped up to Van’s coffin and laid his guns down.
Sayin’, “Have mercy on my soul, Lord, for the life that I’ve led.
I went free and clean once, but the road don’t forgive.
So now the devil, he’s waitin’ in a town south of hell.
In a bar called the Blues—a bar Van once knew well.
And I’m ready to face him, but I still can’t decide,
Whether livin’ means flyin’, or I’m waitin’ to die.
But if he should smite me, my tale will live on.
Just another lost martyr shot down for his song.”

The pallbearers rose now, three to each side,
The four horsemen, two sons, and a vagabond named Clyde.
Each of them wore coattails and gold in their smile,
As the recessional was sung by a beanpole named Lyle.
The world, it went gray as the clouds came to swarm,
The village elders wept, and the skies above stormed.
While down along Death Valley the loners stood in wait,
To watch as Van rolled by, headed for the gates.
They bid him farewell, said, “It’s time you move along.
There ain’t no point in hangin’ round a world done you wrong.”

Well, Van was born to live, y’know, and then he lived to die,
So now he drinks his whiskey with those aces in the sky.
And on his final day, you see, he did the math once more.
Realized all his lucky sevens had just been threes and fours.
So he cashed in all his chips, somehow managed to break square,
And built himself a gamblin’ boat he sails across midair.
Now some folks, boy, they’re in it just to marry and to age,
Others want prestige, a nice house, a high wage.
But dear old Van, he did it for the sake of his own song,
A song that’s still worth singin, years after he’s passed on.

Watch: Townes Van Zandt, “Waitin’ Around to Die” [at youtube.com]

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