Hold On To What You Got

You’re nineteen years old and fancy That you’re fast as that Wild Bill— You ride and shoot and go crazy— Drink rye whiskey to your fill. You bet that you’ll live forever And never see a sick day, Till some sense is knocked in your head That soon won’t go far away. That buddy you said you’d kill for Lays dead because he was shot— And there was nothing you could do, But hold on to what you got. So you grow wrinkled and wiser And think what you need is gold— To buy your dreams and your lovers As days and years make you old. But the gold comes and then it’s gone And only your kin stand by— As you watch them die one by one And all you can do is cry. So you tighten up your cinches And delight in God’s sad plot— Then savor those you love the more And hold on to what you got.