John Prine - A Good Time Lyrics | Lyrics.com

About the Song

If there’s one song that beautifully captures the wit, wisdom, and warmhearted mischief of John Prine, it’s “When I Get to Heaven.” Released in 2018 on his final studio album, The Tree of Forgiveness, this song became a fitting farewell from a man who spent nearly five decades writing about life’s messiness with equal parts humor and heart. It’s not just a song—it’s a celebration of everything Prine stood for: love, laughter, family, and the belief that music could make even the hardest truths feel gentle.

“When I Get to Heaven” is Prine at his most playful, imagining the afterlife not as a solemn destination, but as a rollicking, joyful reunion. He opens the track by declaring he’ll “open up a nightclub called The Tree of Forgiveness,” where he’ll sip vodka and ginger ale and smoke a cigarette “nine miles long.” The imagery is vivid, absurd, and delightful—and yet, underneath the whimsy lies something deeply moving. Prine isn’t denying death; he’s dancing with it. His voice—raspy from surviving cancer but stronger in soul than ever—welcomes us into this imagined heaven where grief is replaced with glee, and regret is outshined by resilience.

The song’s spoken-word intro, complete with handclaps and background vocals from his family, gives it a down-home, front-porch feel. It’s like hearing a grandfather spin one last tall tale, winking all the while. But make no mistake—John Prine is doing more than joking around. When he sings about forgiving those who did him wrong and kissing the lips of a girl named Claudette, he’s sharing his final thoughts on what really matters: kindness, joy, forgiveness, and love.

What makes this song so touching for older listeners is how fearlessly it faces the end. Instead of tears or silence, “When I Get to Heaven” gives us laughter, music, and celebration. It reminds us that legacy isn’t built on grand gestures, but on small moments of humor, generosity, and humanity.

This track became all the more poignant after Prine’s death in 2020 due to COVID-19. In many ways, it now plays like a message he left behind—his voice echoing with life, love, and the hope that maybe, just maybe, heaven has a good jukebox.When John Prine Gets to Heaven – Garden & Gun

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Lyrics: When I Get to Heaven

When I get to heaven, I’m gonna shake God’s hand
Thank him for more blessings than one man can stand
Then I’m gonna get a guitar and start a rock-n-roll band
Check into a swell hotel, ain’t the afterlife grand?

And then I’m gonna get a cocktail: vodka and ginger ale
Yeah, I’m gonna smoke a cigarette that’s nine miles long
I’m gonna kiss that pretty girl on the tilt-a-whirl
‘Cause this old man is goin’ to town

Then as God as my witness, I’m gettin’ back into show business
I’m gonna open up a nightclub called “The Tree of Forgiveness”
And forgive everybody ever done me any harm
Well, I might even invite a few choice critics, those syph’litic parasitics
Buy ’em a pint of Smithwick’s and smother ’em with my charm

‘Cause then I’m gonna get a cocktail: vodka and ginger ale
Yeah I’m gonna smoke a cigarette that’s nine miles long
I’m gonna kiss that pretty girl on the tilt-a-whirl
Yeah this old man is goin’ to town

Yeah when I get to heaven, I’m gonna take that wristwatch off my arm
What are you gonna do with time after you’ve bought the farm?
And then I’m gonna go find my mom and dad, and good old brother Doug
Well I bet him and cousin Jackie are still cuttin’ up a rug
I wanna see all my mama’s sisters, ’cause that’s where all the love starts
I miss ’em all like crazy, bless their little hearts
And I always will remember these words my daddy said
He said, “Buddy, when you’re dead, you’re a dead pecker-head”
I hope to prove him wrong… that is, when I get to heaven

‘Cause I’m gonna have a cocktail: vodka and ginger ale
Yeah I’m gonna smoke a cigarette that’s nine miles long
I’m gonna kiss that pretty girl on the tilt-a-whirl
Yeah this old man is goin’ to town
Yeah this old man is goin’ to town

You Missed

IT ISN’T ABOUT FILLING A VACUUM LEFT BY A LEGEND; IT’S ABOUT PICKING UP THE TRADITION OF SHOWING UP WHERE IT MATTERS MOST. Toby Keith’s legacy wasn’t built on the charts alone—it was forged in the heat of deployments, the quiet of military bases, and the conviction that country music should be the soundtrack for those who sacrifice their own “normal” for the rest of us. He understood that a performance for service members isn’t just a concert; it’s a vital connection to home. When Chris Young steps onto that stage at Schofield Barracks this July 4th, he isn’t trying to be the “next” Toby Keith. He is bringing his own baritone and his own sense of duty to a place where the air is heavy with the weight of service. Standing under a Hawaiian sky surrounded by military families, skydivers, and the pulse of Army bands, he is continuing the most important part of country music’s mission: the “thank you.” There is something inherently sacred about a concert that happens on a base rather than a stadium. The scale is different, the stakes are higher, and the audience has earned their seat in a way that no VIP ticket can replicate. By choosing to be there on America’s 250th birthday, Chris Young is affirming that this genre—at its best—isn’t just for entertainment. It is for community, for honor, and for the people who keep the country running from the outside in. Toby Keith proved that country music is at its strongest when it’s traveling toward the people who need it most, and it’s a powerful thing to see that road being traveled once again.

IT IS A STORY THAT SOUNDS LIKE A COUNTRY SONG WRITTEN IN REVERSE: THE MAN FINALLY GETTING THE GIRL AFTER YEARS OF KEEPING HER ON A PEDESTAL. There is a unique kind of grit in Brad Paisley’s journey to Kimberly Williams. It wasn’t a sudden spark; it was a decade-long path that started in a dark movie theater while he was still dealing with a heartbreak that had nothing to do with her. Most people would have let a crush on a movie star fade into the background of real life, but Brad kept that thread going. From the 1991 screening of Father of the Bride to the lonely 1995 trip to see the sequel—fueled by the hope of a cinematic reunion that never materialized—he was building a narrative in his head long before he ever shook her hand. When he finally brought her into his world for the “I’m Gonna Miss Her” video in 2001, he wasn’t just casting an actress; he was finally walking through the door he’d been staring at for ten years. Their wedding at Pepperdine was the ultimate piece of the puzzle. Hiding a bridal gown under a denim jacket to keep the guests guessing until the last second is exactly the kind of unpretentious, “real” move you’d expect from two people who found their way to each other through the long, quiet path. It serves as a reminder that sometimes the best stories aren’t the ones that happen in a flash of lightning, but the ones that survive the years, the heartbreaks, and the distance, only to end up exactly where you imagined they would in the first place. Twenty-three years later, it’s clear that “marriage or jail” was the best gamble he ever made.

IT IS THE RAWNESS OF THE RECORDING THAT MAKES THE TRUTH SO DEVASTATING. In an industry where every note is usually polished, produced, and perfected for the airwaves, that work tape stands alone. It wasn’t intended to be a track, a hit, or a legacy. It was intended to be a message between two people, stripped of every artifice that usually buffers us from the reality of a person’s heart. When you listen to “Tell Lorrie I Love Her,” you aren’t hearing an artist; you are hearing a husband. You are hearing the voice that defined the sound of an era, but stripped of the Nashville gloss. Because it lacks the production of a studio record, it lacks the barrier of a performance—it hits with the immediate, uncomfortable intimacy of a private moment that was never supposed to be public. That is why the tape still carries such weight decades later. It serves as a haunting reminder of what was taken—the potential, the future, and the unwritten songs that would have followed. It reminds us that behind the myth of Keith Whitley, the legend who died too young, there was simply a man who had a heart he wanted to express. In a way, that tape is the most honest thing he ever left behind. It doesn’t ask for your admiration; it just asks you to listen. And in the quiet of that room, with nothing but a guitar and a voice, you realize that while the world lost a voice, Lorrie Morgan lost a husband. That is the kind of grief that no production can hide and no amount of time can fully smooth over.