The night they laid Jim Watson down and put him in his grave,
I came out fro the cold, black cloud and grabbed the only spade.
I avoided all the stares and pitched the dirt down where he lay,
Nothing brings a town out like a tragedy, they say.
But if you knew Jim Watson like I knew him well myself,
You might begin to understand the depths of his hell.
You might take a step back then, and dry your eyes, my friend.
No one could guess or even try to understand,
How a man with so much going could die by his own hand.
You only see the smiles and the people at the show,
You never see the darker places where the secrets go.
Some people seek out help to lighten their load,
But Jim took all the burden and he went at it alone.
But I could see the darkened eyes and all the telltale signs
That something deep and troubling plagued his mind.
I pulled him to the side one time to ask him how he was,
He said he didn’t want to talk about it, he didn’t want the fuss.
He tried to steer the subject to something more benign,
And I obliged him thinking there’d be another time
If you ask how I could tell, how I could plainly see
That a good man became a hanging man became a mystery
It’s because I know the quick fixes and I know what slowly kills,
I’m the pharmacist who sold him his pills.