There once a dare devil named Dan
smugly swung with only one hand
forgot and let go
of the rope in tow
sank in a thick pool of quicksand.
Some pirates once used, this uncharted land,
To bury their treasure, and contraband.
Now, where x marks that spot,
On a map, time forgot.
They all lie entombed, submerged in quicksand.
4 / 14 / 2019.
I hope to heaven that when I die
I meet Woody Guthrie in the sky
and then upon a dust-bowl cloud
we'll find the grace to sing aloud,
and that the Heavens won't debar
the using of a stringed guitar,
though usually the angel choir
prefers to play the harp or lyre.
When Woody asks how things have bin
in the world of strife and sin,
I'll say spud soup's 'bout just as thin
as when on earth he still could sing.
(Them politicians can see through it
Like a lump of mama's suet)
Robbers at home less often use
the six gun than back then
for they prefer the gentle ruse
and still the fountain pen,
and still the fountain pen.
Mick Jagger and Bob Dylan,
may join us by and by,
And though they sure are getting on,
may they live long ere they die,
may they live long ere they die.
And then we'll do an earthbound tour,
in stadium, field or sewer,
for like Joe Hill we'll return
from grave or tomb or dusty urn
as long as workers claim their right
and songsters yet acclaim their fight.
till everything is globalized
and unions have been pulverized.
Till then, till then, we'll sing along,
till then we'll sing our song.
The quick and the dead never greet
Polar opposites that only, if they do ever meet
Cross paths at the end of a trajectory of a blast of light
A split second, high energy collision of heavy weights
The final release in a collapse of quaking knees
The messenger of death delivers the dreaded news
Expressed in a trigger of crushed steel felt before it’s heard
The soul escaping before it registers in the hanging head