“When, my Bones?”
by Nate Marshall

When my bones are picked clean,
when my bones are picked clean
I’ll stretch east and west to see what’s left
Lord, when my bones are picked clean.

Will my name breath beyond me
in books, my seed, or dreams;
in paint fading fast under the overpass
Lord, when my bones are picked clean?

Or will I see the workings 
of what these hands have built?
Or will it all wither and bend and be gone to the wind
Lord, when my bones are picked clean?

And when I flee the wreckage
of this gasoline body,
will the penniless sorrow bleed into tomorrow
Lord, when my bones are picked clean?

Seems everyone around me 
believes money makes the man.
But I’ll be singing this tune out under the moon,
not a dying dollar in my hand,
not a dying dollar in my hand.

Oh and when they put me in the ground
who will gather round?
Will there be anyone, will there be 21 guns
Lord, when they put me in the ground?

O death, I’ve heard you creeping,
keeping me on edge;
pushing me to impress while there’s time left.
You’re breathing at my window ledge,
breathing at my window ledge.

When my bones are picked clean
and the clean bones burned and gone
I just want to look back and say I gave everything away
Lord, when my bones are picked clean.