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[ti:My Century] |
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[ar:Zaac Pick] |
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[al:] |
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My Century |
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Zaac Pick |
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hands like leather |
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from working in the weather on the family farm |
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though I was still young |
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when we moved into the city where the factories are |
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it was years later when the radio playing |
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said the war had been won |
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and we were going home |
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I was the lucky one |
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|
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walking into the middle of a mystery |
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though I don't know if I'm ever going to get to see |
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my century, my century |
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well I seen it all |
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before planes and malls |
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use to send letters, now the telephone calls |
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the carriage and cart, to the freeways and cars |
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even done better, sent a man to the stars |
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and we keep moving on |
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what are we running from? |
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|
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walking to the middle of a mystery |
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though I don't know if I'm ever going to get to see |
| [01:41.31] |
my century, my century |
| [01:52.21] |
|
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if you find a lover, then treat her like no other till the day that you die |
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and when you get to my age |
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I hope the lines on your face are something you wouldn't hide |
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but these days you got no patience to wait |
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so busy tryin' to get old |
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and I wonder what for |
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I wonder what for |
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can't see the skin for the bones |
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not many people I know live to a hundred years old |
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my friends have moved on, all my sisters are gone and I'm ready to go |
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and when my funeral comes, can you bring your guitar |
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and play my favorite songs |
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play my favorite songs |
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|
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and then he walked out into the middle of the mystery |
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talking about going home |
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and I don't know if I'm ever going to get to see |
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my century |
