The farmer drove by again,
louder this time.
His tractor tearing the ground up.
Planting another harvest,
I wonder if he knows,
it is his last.
That is the funny thing about death,
most men never know they are dying.
Some do nothing but run straight towards it.
His lines just get slightly less straight,
breathing a bit harder,
thinking becomes a chore.
He turns the tractor like he’s a done million times.
Maybe a million and one time is too many.
The tractor keeps going straight,
the old man isn’t turning.
He’s heading straight for the cliff.
He turns at last.
I guess he had one more left in him.
I wonder what I have left in me,
what you have.