Tip to that old generation of truth,
a at mark,
that was the Haight on the Ashbury Street of a channel tack at the Panhandle,
sew in those threads of the bagged bottle,
these are the days of grand Tunes that dg best did a guitar.
From that Vietnam War to the conflict with America it came to speech in his lyrics,
no violence caused his casual,
it brought more of term,
to life it granted spacial recognized,
those eyes of the weight,
yet a smile broke the wall of shirt.
The perhaps of the character to that evening breeze,
wind would often be filed,
it shored to the wave,
it was the rumbling of a yodel that swag to the curtain of the eyes,
harp in that tone deep violets of warn,
gathering shelf to dust that grave dg would coo to a crow asking a dove frost fly.
Zippered well into the drawl was a straw,
chew to a tow back Co.,
flag to hill on the mountain of the lost,
viewing in to canter the trots of America forgot,
it took graph to spell those day light kneed,
I saw a june bug that butter flies spread to eager Pi,
seem bridle to the curb of port,
reins straight as English was the saddle of his grown.
Bask kits weave such hours upon the bridge to bulb,
front porch came to stride the awl leaped,
ink dropped like a phone.
Dial lean staff Ford at the oh ill,
I would quiet to Stewball on the string,
wine bouquets of flowers to the when Nuer's circle.
fried math would cross my silence to quest of the shown.
Spree today the 1st of April 2017 I Pandora a treasure reed,
for Don is long dead and that is the bruise on my Tolled,
prices and fixtures to lightning and the thunder is just a reminder of those days on the Rum,
sherry Whiskey and the posture of what gave no cruels,
for the fountain drink it was different that mine,
but the ripple pause such a pasture to barn effect that the hoarse stilled me type,
just a world for the word and a Man that sung to me The Blues.
