Wait it Wasn't Real Leather

Those first cowboy boots at about fifteen had a stacked heel
nicely tooled, deep brown, but wait they weren’t real
leather, they were just like me – all persona

Like Naugahyde back in the 60’s and 70’s
like Frank Zappa’s plastic people
it had all gotten so unreal, so unnatural

That one month stay in the psych ward in ‘72
they had real leather in the arts and crafts room
I laced cigarette cases and fashioned myself
a large brown leather satchel
I started to get real

It was just an initiation
that same year what got real was so unreal
I still can’t figure it out all these years later
But I do know the difference
between being it and wearing it

Wait – I don’t want to tell this same story now
maybe its not real leather means nobody died
that year – no sacrifices had to be made
for me loved or outfitted or seated
in reality – comfortable and styling. A good idea!

But – he is dead its true though it seems unreal
It’s a weight, a secret and a mystery that I hold
and I’m not waiting to meet him in Heaven or Hell
the scene was faked and they never will tell
My suspicions don’t fit with the story I was told.

It broke my heart, and nothing seemed real
dissolving blow by blow - no love left in me
I took your bodies for your company
and gave you mine if you had lines,
till the trading deficit left a poverty
that made faux leather boots seem fine and haughty.

No wonder people climb the material ladder
trying to get back up
but I’d rather one nice broken in real thing
I’ve learned to work and cry and laugh and sing
I’ve been fooled and stung and loved and blessed
since then a son and much of life has come and gone
I’m not a cowgirl, those aren’t my boots
no need to blow it all up any bigger than it really is,
these poor old lines are fine enough, they’re really mine.