Gordon Lightfoot
The Marquee whispered, Gorden is gone...
The Edmund Fitzgerald briefly raised its bow.
From the black, icy depths of its echoes.
Carefree highway shimmering, flecks of gold.
If you could read my mind, love.
It would wish your chords to never grow old.
It's Sundown; the maple leaf sways in great sadness.
Melodies cascading gently down from the heavens.
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