Stoney

I first ran into Stoney It was in a bar downtown I was up Richmond, Virginia then Just a-bumming around Suitcase to suitcase We started in talking Finding out about the things we've shared In the miles we've been He carried an old gray pillowcase Full of books by Durrell Played this old Concertina guitar It was all beat up and played like hell Until you got him started Singing them gospel songs He drank all night for nothing He told stories 'til dawn He said "Get your bags, boy, come on, sun's up "It's time to roll "You know there ain't no better time than early in the morning "To be out walking that road "Watch another day beginning While the fools are rushing on by "We'll be like some old Mr. Independence, son "We're taking our own sweet time So we walked on out the highway Under clear blue sky I was listening to the tales that he told Drinking warm red wine 'Bout the night he rolled sevens About some girl who'd done him wrong All the things he could think of While we walked along Yeah, ol' Stoney had a magic Made him hard to forget Like the night we rolled down that old old high highway In a pickup we nearly wrecked A crazy woman driving All drunked up and carrying on 'Til Stoney finally calmed her Singing them gospel songs We split the road at Norwood He just shook my hand He said "I'll see you some place, cowboy" But you know, he never has We were that free then Just walking down the road Never really caring where That old highway goes Few years later, found out ol' Stoney was a bullshitter No doubt about it Still, there was just this way that he told you things Made you never want to doubt him He kept you going When the going got rough Hell, he'll get you through the lean times Just by making it up Just by making it up You know, when you're young and you don't tell the truth They call you a "fibber" When you get a little older and you still don't tell the truth They call you a "liar" Get a little bit older and you still ain't telling the truth The might call you a "bullshitter" Get a little older and you still ain't telling the truth And you're getting pretty good at it They call you an artist Give you plaques, keys to cities, trophies Stuff like that