When you die they surround you,
when it hits you get up, you walk it off,
but they still come at you. They
mean well, they'll tell you
You look fine, a stitch here, a few on the eye, one on the nose,
after that, you'll look fine.
When people stop in their busy mornings to care for you,
there is something much more than the man who hit you.
He does not matter, but the man who gave you a towel, a granola bar,
and a bottle of water--he matters, and spit your misguided misgivings,
but he now matters more now that you can make, for he helped a traveler,
the traveler lived, and lookout, mountain, there is no sacrifice today,
my legs have seen Belgium and Portugal and I was given clearance
in the night in Braga, and I drink brandy free.
What struck you? The desert, my brother, it is dry.