Walk Good

Walk good (my child)
that's how we say goodbye.
Walk good (my child)
under any sky.

Grandpa on the porch with his evening tea,
watching the road where I used to be small.
My suitcase packed for the foreign flight,
one more evening before I fly.
He don't say much, he never did —
he talk in proverbs like his father did.
He put his hand on my shoulder slow,
said the two little words that the old ones know.

It mean more than travel safe,
it mean more than fare thee well —
it mean carry yourself with grace
through whatever heaven or hard time tell.

Walk good, wherever the road may bend,
walk good, till we meet again. (my child)
Keep your heart clean, head held high —
walk on, my child, don't cry.

Walk good. (every mile)
Keep it clean. (every trial)
Keep your heart clean and your head held high.

Now I'm in the city where the winter stay,
and I hear his voice when I lose my way.
When the wrong crowd call or the shortcut shine,
them two little words draw a straight clean line.
I teach it to my daughter at the schoolyard gate,
watch her carry it small and straight.
One porch, one proverb, three generations strong —
some blessings only two words long.

it mean carry yourself with grace
through whatever heaven or hard time tell.

Walk good, wherever the road may bend,
walk good, till we meet again. (my child)
Keep your heart clean, head held high —
walk on, my child, don't cry.

The phone call came on a Sunday night —
Grandpa gone easy in the fading light.
They say his last words from the porch chair:
"Tell them all walk good," and he left it there.

(one porch, one proverb)
One blessing carried on and on, (every mile)
three generations strong.

Walk good, wherever the road may bend,
walk good, till we meet again. (my child)
Some blessings only two words long —
walk good, and we walk on.

That's how we say goodbye —
till we meet again.

(walk good, my child)