Saturday Night

My old man died on a Saturday night I watched as he just stopped breathing And though it was awful and painful and sad I was glad that he wasn't alone It felt like something he'd just had to go through An arduous task he'd been given And it seemed so unfair it was his cross to bear The sickest and weakest of us Oh, we never spoke much as a father and son But we had an understanding And I still hear his voice when I open my mouth In anger, or wisdom, or such Oh, if I see a similar jacket or hair I think for a moment I've found him But then I remember, it's not about where And I know he's not lost, he is gone I'm just glad that he wasn't alone