It Happens

.IT HAPPENS.

There is a man who is dressed in black

Going down Western with an urge to dance

I'm not sure why he's so compelled

You could ask but he'll never stop to tell

He found the music, he's hearing the bells

By the looks of it the man's doing well

I almost wonder where he goes or how he sleeps

If his dreams follow along in beats

Is he sane or is he loco?

How can he just let it go?

Spinning in his jet black clothes

These answers I may never know

But nothing is more clear than this

The man on Western has found some bliss

Through rain or through mist

He's found bliss even when he steps in

shit