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The Short Story Long - Restaurant lyrics

I met a man who makes meals at a restaurant
Where there's no menu
But everything's on it
Impossible, I know
But I met a man who makes meals
At a restaurant called "d**h Row"
I met a man who makes the last meals
And I know way too many people who would attack him
Asking him
How it feels to be part of something like that
So, instead
I just let him chew the fat
And I listen

And he tells me about a 31 year old boy
A 31 year old boy because he was convicted at the age of 22
Been waiting 9 years on d**h Row
And last week was his turn
So he asked for
Sourdough french toast
And a side of magic beans
Because he'd rather face down a giant
Rather take his chances with a beanstalk
Than walk down that hall
Where every footfall echoes into that same oblivion
Where every experience he never had congregates
To create a world he never lived in
So ya
Find yourself asking for things
Like magic beans
And a cook finds himself understanding
What it means
To be desperate

And he tells me that
Most of this food never gets touched
That doesn't stop him from being exact
Even though the fact is
He'll never make a meal as good as mom could
It'll never taste as good as it would
Coming from the one who raised you and
He knows this
But he's meticulous
Even though he knows that this 31 year old boy
Grabbed his arresting officer's service revolver
Tried to use it like a problem-solver
He knows this
But he makes french toast with sour dough
As though he was cooking for a king
Because the last thing you should
Do is eat well
Especially if there's a family prayin'
That you have to go slow
When you take that walk through hell

So everything's fresh
And the egg's are free-range
And there's a last minute change of pans
Because the last hands to wash that pan
Missed a spot
And this cook's got a vision
Of french toast that falls apart
So softly
It feels like lovers lying in bed
Breaking apart to sleep so deeply
The shallow of their dreams
Is enough for hate to drown in
Because if you're gonna come up short
On a request like magic beans
You better be sure
The first part of that meal
Means something

He tells me it's a job
And as cliche as it sounds
Someone's gotta do it
Tells me back in the day
They used to let mothers try
But most of them
Couldn't get through it
So a job was born out of necessity
And those struck by poverty
Didn't have false visions
Of turning this work into their legacy
They didn't dream of a dynasty
Where the mountains
Were made of chocolate
Or sugar stood in for sand
But they knew America
Would put a check in their hand
So men and women were born into workers
Because ideas like
Right and wrong
Get outweighed by need
Anytime you've got mouths to feed

He tells me that America failed
That they nailed freedom to a cross
Because every boss in every office
Is in his own separate world
Having to be held up by the backs of
Employees expected to say "Please"
Everytime they have to take a piss
I know way too many people
Who would tell me
That they can't go on like this
And we say this
But we still set our alarms
To be up in time for our 9 to 5
We're just reporters
Coming to you live
From bus stops and coffee shops

We wear our lives
Like costumes
Use bills and coins like props
In an over budget production
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That we cannot seem to stop
So it just goes on like this
As if we accept this
As if we've all become
Buddhas of ma** production
Our brains rotting
Like teeth
Under the sweet
Unending bliss of false enlightenment

And he tells me
We used to be flint
And we'd spark
Whenever struck by new ideas
But now all there is is jobs
And someone's gotta do them
And isn't he lucky
That he lives in a country where
Wants to be someone

And isn't he lucky
That when the day's done
He can go home
And forget
Like he played this hand
Knowing it was a bad bet
Because what you risk
Reveals what you value
And this man
Ventured everything he knew
To the point where
His wife can no longer convince him
That her eyes are the color blue
And what kind of life
Have you go left
If you want no one to know
What you do

See, he lets everyone think that
He's just a cook
Because he doesn't want his kids
To know what daddy does
And is unable to tell his mother
Where he was
When they executed
A 31 year old boy
For k**ing the first son
Of the same mother
He made the meal
For the man who took his brother
Because he didn't trust
Anyone who was willing
To fill in for him that day
Because they'd say things like
"Don't worry"
With just enough of a smile
If he ever stood trial
Trying to defend that meal
All he'd ever feel
Is guilty

So he made french toast with sour dough
As though he was making
A monument to his virtues
That would never be brought down
By the half-truths
Of America
In truth?
It never got touched
And he tells me
When the skeletons
In his closet
Finally bust down the door
All he's gonna need
Is his fist
And someone's jaw

Says regret is like
Living your life
As a blind man
Having to imagine
Everything you lived
But never saw
He can't imagine it
Any different than
His mother at the execution
Sitting in the front row
Clear tears mixing with
Blush and eye shadow
Sitting there
Looking as though
She'd been punched in the face
By a rainbow
But he says
"I know I did the right thing"

And I'm not here
To sing his praise
Or raise a big deal
Made of granite and lime
But America will never fall
To it's feet and say
"I'm sorry"
And all this is
Is the story of a man
Who makes meals
And how one day
He made a testament
To his ethics:
Golden brown
And stacked
A perfect 5 inches high
Tells me he feels bad
For the boys on d**h row
He knows America failed them
He says most of them
Still ask for apple pie

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