[Verse 1]
Two a.m., diner on Fifth and Vine,
same chili cheese fries I ordered at twenty-nine,
only now my gut throws a sit-down strike,
holds up a sign that reads "not tonight."
Used to eat a brick and sleep like a stone,
now one jalapeño and my stomach's on the phone,
calling in reserves, cramping up the floor,
forty-four years old, slammed through a door.
Gas station tacos used to be a Tuesday thing,
now they're a Tuesday-bleeding-into-Thursday thing,
my own machine turned landlord, sending me a bill,
rent's overdue and the pipes are running ill.
[Chorus]
Oh, the body keeps its own receipts,
settles up slow, right where you eat,
can't eat whatever you want no more,
it's a quiet little war I didn't ask for.
[Verse 2]
So I stopped arguing with my own insides,
started asking why instead of how I survived.
Turns out digestion ain't some random curse,
it's a system, a conveyor, moving things in order —
twenty-five feet of tubing doing honest labor,
pushed along by something called peristalsis,
a slow wave of muscle, squeezing like a pulse,
and mine's just older, asking me for favors.
Had the app build me a short album on it,
how the stomach churns, how the small bowel runs it —
knowing why she's cramping, why she's slow,
makes the ache feel less like a ghost I don't know.
[Verse 3]
Doctor says it's normal, just the body keeping time,
asks about my fiber, my water, my wine,
I laugh and tell her salsa's basically a food group,
she writes me a pamphlet, I fold it like a troop.
Learned to read a label like it's a love letter,
sodium and spice level, asking does this make it better,
trade the gas station tacos for something slow-cooked and kind,
not 'cause I'm broken, just 'cause I changed my mind.
Still get the craving riding shotgun on a Friday,
but now I pack a little grace along for the ride, eh,
forty-four ain't done, it's just rewriting the menu,
learning the body's language, one ache, one clue, continue.
[Bridge]
Still some nights I want the fries, the salt, the burn,
knowledge doesn't kill a craving, that's the hard-earned turn.
My stomach's not my enemy, just older, slower, true,
can't out-argue a muscle that's only doing what it's due.
Some wars don't end in victory, just a quieter kind of peace,
a truce signed over broth instead of grease.
[Chorus]
Oh, the body keeps its own receipts,
settles up slow, right where you eat,
can't eat whatever you want no more,
it's a quiet little war I didn't ask for.
[Chorus]
Oh, the body keeps its own receipts,
settles up slow, right where you eat,
can't eat whatever you want no more,
it's a quiet little war I didn't ask for.