Coffee cup lifted in the doorway light,
watchin’ you walk out into the thinning night.
Mama on the balcony, above the parking lot,
flick of her lighter catchin’ all the things she’s not.

She inhales the morning like a prayer she can’t outrun,
soft as a whisper: be good, son.

Be good, son, be good, son,
carry what I gave you, leave the rest undone.
Be good, son, be good, son,
I’m cheering you on from the rising sun.

Smoke curls upward like a secret she keeps,
years in her chest that never learned to sleep.
A ledger of heartbeats she never wrote down,
hopes stitched quiet in a second-hand town.

She breathes out slowly as the world comes undone,
over and over: be good, son.

Be good, son, be good, son,
take the better parts of me, leave the hurting ones.
Be good, son, be good, son,
I’m cheering you on from the rising sun.

Maybe love is the smoke, maybe love is the spark,
maybe all we ever carry is the echo in the dark.
She watches your shadow fade into the dawn—
still whispering your name long after you’re gone.

Be good, son, be good, son,
I raised you in the quiet where the truth is won.
Be good, son, be good, son,
I’m cheering you on from the rising sun.