As I sit in my chair, practicing the traditions of bowing, blessing my heir
The thrown is now empty
My body melts in the chair
Drinking and reminiscing
About the dynasty he created
Feeling frustrated and worried about the memories fading
The structure he built for this tower
Is crackling down, we mourn this hour
He was our power
Now it's just all an overcast
Our eyes are so blind
we see more clear through a tall glass of Jack
At this time we try hard to find
Small signs
That his spirit still rules the south
And we're caught up in our own decisions
I call it a frontal cottonmouth
None of this could have been envisioned
Because if I predicted the next steps
He'd still be apart of our rhythm
Dreams can fool even the slightest of good intentions
Goodbye abuelito, until next time