There
must be something wrong, my friend,
You're
talkin' 'bout
kickin' my
ass.
Be-
fore you go do something rash
please
hear my daddy's song
I
wrote it on his birthday
two years dead.
Someone kicked my daddy's ass
fifty years ago
He was
workin as a rent a cop
in Al Capone's Chicago.
They
took him for a one-way ride
he
somehow ran away
and
as he ran they shot him
hit him in the leg.
So my
daddy went to the hospital
and
not too long thereafter
so did the guy that set him up.
It was
all a case of mistaken identity,
so my daddy says.
Daddy
left the hospital a few weeks later
Two years later married Mom,
ten years later they had me.
Daddy was a civic pillar
a
leader and a friend
to
four generations of Detroit city kids
in
ninth grade math
and
junior high woodshop.
He made the solid middle middle class,
had no use for more.
I
wrote this on his birthday
two years dead.
He
led a decent, happy life
and
died when it was time.
But for the
man that tried to kill him,
the
story has no end.
It
leaves him in his hospital bed,
lost the use of his arms and his legs.
It was
all a case of mistaken identity,
so my father says.
But when you
mess with a man that means no harm
it's funny how things go.
So
now you've heard my daddy's aong,
I
hope you changed your mind
but
if you go and mess with me
you best watch out behind
for a
jolly man with hazel eyes
that
talks real soft when he's mad.