Shane Koyczan, The Short Story Long - Restaurant lyrics

I met a man who makes meals at
A restaurant where there's no menu
But everything's on it impossible, I know

But, I met a man who makes meals
At a restaurant called "Death Row"
I met a man who makes the last meals
And I know way too many
People who would attack him
Asking him how it feels to be
Part of something like that so, instead
I just let him chew the fat and I listen

And he tells me about a 31-year-old boy
A 31-year-old boy because he was convicted at
The age of 22 Been waiting 9
Years on Death Row, and last week was
His turn so he asked for
Sourdough French toast
And a side of magic beans
Because he'd rather face down a giant


Rather take his chances with a beanstalk
Than walk down that hall where every
Footfall echoes into that same oblivion
Where every experience he
Never had congregates
To create a world, he never lived in
So yeah, you find yourself asking
For things, like magic beans
And a cook finds himself understanding what
It means to be desperate

Take my clothing I don’t want it
All my money never had none
Save your pity for the needy
Never had it don’t need it now I’m gone

And he tells me that most of
This food never gets touched
That doesn't stop him from being exact
Even though the fact is he'll never make
A meal as good as mom could
It'll never taste as good as it would
Coming from the one who raised you
And he knows this but he's meticulous
Even though he knows that this 31-year-old
Boy grabbed his arresting officer's
Service revolver tried to use it
Like a problem solver

He knows this
But he makes French toast with sourdough as
Though he was cooking for a king
Because the last thing you should
Do is eat well
Especially if there's a family praying'
That you have to
Go slow when you take that walk-through hell

So, everything's fresh
And the eggs are free range
And there's a last-minute change of pans
Because the last hands to wash
That pan missed a spot
And this cook got a vision of
French toast that falls apart so
Softly it feels like lovers lying in
Bed breaking apart to sleep
So deeply the shallow of their dreams Is
Enough for hate to drown in

Because if you're goanna come up short
On a request like magic beans
You better be sure the first part
Of that meal means something

He tells me it's a job
And as cliché as it sounds
Someone’s gotta do it
Tells me back in the day
They used to let mothers
Try but most of them couldn't get through it
So, a job was born out of necessity
And those struck by poverty
Didn't have false visions
Of turning this work into their legacy
They didn't dream of a dynasty
Were the mountains were
Made of chocolate or sugar stood in for sand
But they knew America would put
A check in their hands, so men and women
Were born into workers
Because ideas like right
And wrong get outweighed by need
Anytime you've got mouths to feed

He tells me that America failed
That they nailed freedom to a
Cross because every boss
In every office, in his own separate world
Having to be held up by the
Backs of employees expected to
Say "Please" Every time they have
To take a piss

I know way too many people
Who would tell me that
They can't go on like this, and we say this
But we still set our alarms to be up
In time for our 9 to 5
We're just reporters coming to you live
From bus stops and coffee shops

We wear our lives like costumes
Use bills and coins like
Props in an over-budget
Production that we cannot seem to stop
So, it just goes on like this
As if we accept this as if we've all become
Buddhas of mass production
Our brains rotting like teeth under the sweet
Unending bliss of false enlightenment and
He tells me we used to be flint
And we'd spark
Whenever struck by new ideas but
Now all there is
Is jobs and someone's gotta do them
And isn't he lucky that
He lives in a country where
Everyone wants to be someone

Naked deep down
Where you bury…my bones don’t want no company
I spend my lifetime in solitary
Don’t scare me to be alone

And isn't he lucky that when the day's done
He can go home
And forget like he played this hand
Knowing it was a bad bet
Because what you risk reveals what you value

And this man ventured everything he knew
To the point where his wife
Can no longer convince
Him that her eyes are the colour blue
And what kind of life have you got left when
You want no one to know what you do?

See, he lets everyone think that
He’s just a cook
Because he doesn't want his kids to know what
Daddy does and is unable to tell his mother
Where he was when they executed a 31-year-old
Boy, killing the first son
Of the same mother
He made the meal the man who took his
Brother, because he didn't trust
Anyone who was willing
To fill in for him that day
Because they'd say things like "Don’t worry"
With just enough of a smile
If he ever stood trial trying to defend that
Meal all he'd ever feel is guilty

So, he made French toast
With sourdough as though
He was making a monument to his virtues
That would never be brought down
By the half-truths Of America
In truth? It never got touched and
He tells me when the skeletons
In his closet finally bust down
The door All he's
Gonna need is his fist and someone's jaw

Says regret is like living your
Life as a blind man
Having to imagine everything you lived
But never saw

He can't imagine it any different than
His mother at the execution, sitting in
The front row, Clear tears mixing with
Blush and eye shadow, sitting there
Looking as though she’d been punched in
The face by a rainbow
But he says, "I know I did the right thing"

And I'm not here to sing his praise, or raise
A big deal made of granite and concrete
But America will never fall to
It's feet and say
"I'm sorry ", and all this is
Is the story of a man, who makes meals
And how one day he made
A testament to his ethics:
Golden brown and stacked a
Perfect 5 inches high
Tells me he feels bad for
The boys on death row

He knows America failed them
He says most of them still ask for apple pie