song lyric from 1987 - The Heartaches Get Harder

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Heartaches Get Harder
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . by Job Conger
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . written November 9, 1987

. . For me, love was never a silly old game I could play.
. . I haven't loved often, but I've had my share, I must say.
. . It's no trick to leave before becoming close enough to care,
. . But when something good dies, the hurt becomes almost too much to bear.

. . . . (chorus)
. . . . . . And the heartaches get harder, the breakups are more of a pain.
. . . . . . When lovers depart in their middle years, it's more of a drain.
. . . . . . So to eager young sweethearts: Don't give up when love's on the sane
. . . . . . For the heartaches get harder; you may never find true love again.

. . Oh, I had me a sweetheart who loved me, and I loved her too,
. . But I took her for granted, as my kind of men often do.
. . Now she's found a new friend, and my chances are shot all to hell.
. . There's a lesson to learn here, and God knows I've learned it very well.

(chorus)

. . The colds that you have as a kid linger longer with age.
. . And the tumble as young love goes south can evolve into rage.
. . Being lonesome for love I screwed, up really cripples my style,
. . So I write stupid songs, and I try to hang on for awhile.

(chorus)

- - The lyric is published in my book Minstrel's Ramble: to Live and Die in Springfield, Illinois and available from Prairie Archives in lyrical downtown Springfield AND whenever I read, recite and sing my poetry. If YOU like the words, make up your own song and share it with others. You have my permission. I'm interested less in the perpetuation of my name than I am in the perpetuation of my words. If you really like the words, arrange for me to perform it at your "tax and spend Libra" social occasion or effigy burning.
. . . . The song is autobiographical, but I'm not uncomfortable singing it for strangers. To admit to my frustration is to reveal a human frailty about as shame eliciting as hitting my thumb with a hammer when I'm putting a nail into the wall to hang a picture.
. . . . I know the words border on cliche, and it seems to OOZE "poor little me" but the insight that for me anyway, breaking up with a paramour of the feminine persuasion is rougher on older farts than young stallions makes it original and worth sharing.
. . . . What do you think?