Box Car Blues
At night the guitar cries its song.
Together, aimless souls do roam.
Riding rails, nights are cold and long.
At night the guitar cries its song.
No place they truly now belong,
box car to box car, is now home.
At night the guitar cries its song.
Together, aimless souls do roam.
©Donna Jones
Copyright © Donna Jones | Year Posted 2013
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