Getting Square

I was just a boy, when my old man said,
“Son, this world is a harsh place, It will hurt you in many ways,
But before you lay down, when you say your last prayer,
Ask yourself this; “did you ever fight fair?”

He lit a smoke, stared out past the moon,
Said, “Son… if you don’t wake up tomorrow,
Will you be proud of what you done today?
‘Cause if you ain’t…
You best start getting square."

I took the long path, through whiskey and sin,
Carved my name into nothing, tried to fake who I’ve been.
But his voice kept calling, like a ghost in the pine,
“Every lie you live, son, is a debt owed in time.”

Woke with demons in the corner, shadows on my skin,
Clock ticking like a coffin lid closing in the wind.
I ran with the ghosts, danced with the devil,
Put vodka in my coffee just to rinse out the shame.

If I don’t rise come the break of day,
Will the stories I wrote be worth what I paid?
If the reaper knocks, will I meet him prepared?
Or will I be just a lost soul who forgot to get square?

I seen men die with gold around their neck,
But not a soul cried, no love, no respect.
I would rather die broke with truth in my hand,
Than rich in the grave, a hollow shell of a man.

Streetlights flicker like the past ain’t dead,
Every sin I carried, I carved in my head.
Used to hustle for a name, now I hustle for peace,
But redemption ain’t cheap, and the cost don't cease.

He said, “Boy, life ain't promised, it’s rented in blood,”
So I plant my regrets where they drown in the mud.
Ain’t no saints in this choir, just scars that sing,
But I still write my truth, like it’s carved in rings.

A man’s past ain't chains, but it sure can weigh.
You gotta walk forward... but remember yesterday.
My father said, “Son, don’t live to impress;
Live so when death comes, you ain’t got regrets.”

Now I lace up my boots with the weight of my past,
But I ain’t laying down till the ledger’s thin.
Forgiveness ain’t soft; it’s a fight in the ring,
And I’m bleeding for every ounce of my sin.

So I tip my hat to the boy I was,
And toast to the man tryna earn back his name.
Pops, I hear you; through the smoke and prayer:
"I'm trying, old man… I’m getting square."