They told me he’d not make it.
Everybody said it. “He’s gone already” they’d say.
“He’s as good as gone and ain’t coming back”
And I told me that too. I said that too.
He wasn’t dead though, not really.
He was still kicking a little, still glinting out of that eye.
Still sparking just a fuzz.
I killed him. Killed him dead. Killed. Him. Dead.
I stomped him out, squished him down and mashed his guts
Till they spread like butter on hot cornbread.
Dead. I killed him.
“Better off dead”, or so the folks said.
“Better off moved on down the road”
“Matter of fact, he was askin’ for it”
I agreed. I said that too, but he wasn’t. He was tired.
He was broke down. He wouldn’t have made much of anything.
No question about it, he wasn’t bound to set the world on fire,
He was going to lay there and crawl. Crawl around and end up a scratch
Away from where he started, and that wasn’t no place.
Better off dead…I killed him.
And as I was swingin’ the axe and pullin’ the trigger and stabbin’ the sticker
He looked at me and just hoped, when I was done, he’d fly.