It Doesn't Mean A Thing

It Doesn't Mean A Thing
I never knew my mother, but I can't say it was so bad
She was still a girl of 17 on the night she met my dad
He was just six months out of Chino trying his hardest to stay clean
When they'd sing like doves sleeping with broken wings in a bed made for a king
It didn't mean a thing

It was a shotgun forest wedding, but they forgot to bring the guns
They were too busy counting promises to the children not yet born
No one could afford the ride, so they just hitched up the 101
And they'd sing like doves dancing with broken wings, with a view fit for a king
It didn't mean a thing
There was a loneliness they would confess
Like the world had just gone bad, I guess
So they'd hold hands looking to the eyes of God
And they'd say, "Tell me why you'd hide from us?
Why you'd fill the world with wickedness?
Why'd you spare us from your grace, but not the rod?"
Now my dad says, "Fuck the details, just keep your head down hard
You got to find yourself alone before you'll find the eyes of God
You may be broke and scared and mad and tear at the flesh of your heart-strings
But you were born to be a peasant not a king
So just stop acting like you're running from something
You're gonna leave the way you came without a thing
With your heart tied your mind tied to a string
You just sing and you sing and you sing:
'It doesn't mean a thing...'"