Billy and John Gibson were friends of mine, twin brothers, and the closest you’d find.
We would run through the cornfield all day and we’d have no other way.
One night it rained so hard we ran like hell toward the open field
I heard my mother yell.
In a blinding flash it was done and the Gibson’s lost a son.
I chased the twins into an open field and gazed in wonder as the thunder pealed.
There for a moment and the next one gone.
There were two then there was one.
They searched but never found where John went.
A life of thirteen years so quickly spent.
And the whole town grieved him until they learned:
Next summer he returned.
They found him lying in an open field wet and burned but in two days he healed.
I asked them to explain.
They could not say how he had not aged a day.
And so it was that, for all I knew, every year that John lived, Bill would live for two and that summer storm returned to claim its prize right before Bill’s very eyes.
They’d find John lyin’ by his brother’s gate,
gone for a year and not a moment late.
Bill was older when his time had come and John still looked so young.
Billy and John Gibson were friends of mine . . .
Written by Nathan Rogers