Restaurant

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 "Death 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 Death 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 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 mass 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 Everyone 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 killing 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 death row He knows America failed them He says most of them Still ask for apple pie