Edward Benz 27 Times
La Dispute Lyrics

I heard the old man's voice break, stutter once then stop it.
I listened to the old man stutter and halt mid-sentence.

I heard A sentence started confidently halted by the sudden absence of a word.
He had started the sentence with confidence, but stopped suddenly when he couldn't find the right word.

Stumbled and he sputtered trying to find it back, something once so simple gone now.
He stumbled and sputtered as he tried to remember the missing word, something that used to come easily to him.

When he finally gave up told me, 'Aw, it's like hell getting old.'
When he finally gave up trying to remember the word, he told me that getting old was like living in hell.

When you came into the store, did you know you show me your scars?
When you entered the store, did you know that you would show me your scars?

I had a heavy heart, he carried a door, it's shattered pane all wrapped in plastic and he asked if I could fix it, come by a little later help him put it back on hinges.
He carried a door with a shattered pane, and asked me to come later to help him fix it and put it back on its hinges. I felt heavy-hearted at the time.

'See, I'm far too old to lift it and it's not for my house, It's my son's.'
He explained that he was too old to lift the door, and that the door belonged to his son's house.

When you opened up the door, what is it you thought you'd find? (Nobody flinch)
When you opened the door, what did you expect to find inside?

Later I came by and backed into the driveway.
Later on, I came back and backed my car into the driveway.

Got out to find him waiting there to lead me through the side yard to back behind the house where the door frame stood empty and helped me keep it steady while I hammered all the pins in then later on the porch we somehow got to talking,
He was waiting for me when I got out of the car and led me to the back of the house where the door frame stood empty. I held the frame steady while he hammered in the pins. Later, we sat on the porch and talked.

he told me of the house and how is son is schizophrenic so they purchased it for him, the medication working and they figured it would help him fit in'help him lead a normal life.
He told me about his son's schizophrenia and how they bought the house for him. They thought the medication was working, and it would help him lead a normal life.

But the pills made him sleep too much.
However, the medication made his son sleep too much.

And he couldn't keep a job as a Result so one day he just gave up on taking them.
As a result, his son couldn't keep a job and stopped taking the medication one day.

And that day she had called you, he'd locked her outside of the house.
On that day, she had called you because he had locked her outside of the house.

How quickly did you get there? And what were you thinking while walking up? What fears flashed in front of you, taunted you, walking to unlock the door?
How fast did you get there? What went through your mind on your way? What fears came up, taunted you, as you walked up to unlock the door?

I remember it, Ed. That story you told me came back clear tonight here while writing.
I remember it, Ed. The story you told me came back to me clearly tonight while I was writing.

And you should know the feeling never left me'the weight of my heart'when you showed me the scars on your arms, when I looked in your eyes and I heard what you said how you probably would've died were it not for to care for your daughter and wife.
I want you to know that the feeling of heaviness in my heart never left me when you showed me your scars and told me how you would have died if it weren't for your responsibility to care for your daughter and wife.

How he drove in the knife, still your son.
It pains me to think about how your son drove in the knife.

How you seemed to look through me to some old projector screen playing back the scene as you described it on a movie reel, as real as the minute when it happened, that memory moving behind me.
When you described that moment, it felt like you were reliving it and looking through me at an old projector screen, with the memory moving behind me as if it were happening in real-time.

That moment that changed you for good.
That moment marked a significant change in you forever.

And he drove to the house and pulled into the driveway.
He drove to the house and pulled into the driveway.

Got out to find his wife waiting, frantic.
He got out of the car and found his wife waiting outside, frantic.

She'd come by to check, found that pillbox was empty, went out to the pharmacy to fill up his prescription and came back to a locked door and could not get back in.
She had come to check on him, found that the pillbox was empty, went to the pharmacy to refill his prescription, and returned to find the door locked, unable to get back in.

She'd knocked and she'd knocked but he wasn't responding.
She had knocked many times, but he wasn't responding.

You put the key into the lock and turned it. Felt the bolt slide away. Slowly open. Went into the hall, his son held a knife, standing off in the shadows, lunged forward and tackled him. Stabbing him over and over and breaking that window. He fled up the staircase. The ambulance came, stitched and filled him with blood while the cops took his son with his wires so tangled his father was a stranger.
You put the key in the lock, felt the bolt slide away, and slowly opened the door. Inside, his son was standing in the shadows, holding a knife. He lunged at you, stabbing you repeatedly and breaking a window. You ran up the stairs, and the ambulance arrived to stitch you up and give you blood. The police took his son with his wires so tangled that his father was a stranger.

And I sit in my apartment.
I sit in my apartment.

I'm getting no answers.
I'm not getting any answers.

I'm finding no peace, no release from the anger.
I'm not finding any peace or release from my anger.

I leave it at arms length.
I keep my distance from it.

I'm keeping my distance.
I'm keeping my distance.

From hotels and Jesus and blood on the carpet.
I'm keeping my distance from hotels, Jesus, and blood on the carpet.

I'm stomaching nothing.
I can't stomach anything.

I'm reaching for no one.
I'm not reaching out to anyone.

I'm leaving this city and I'm headed out to nowhere.
I'm leaving this city and heading out to nowhere.

I carry your image.
I carry your image with me.

Your grandfather's coffin.
I carry your grandfather's coffin with me.

And Ed, if you hear me, I think of you often.
And Ed, if you can hear me, know that I think of you often.

That's all I can offer.
That's all I can offer.

That's all that I know how to give.
That's all that I know how to give.