She calls to say she's working late.
Won't make it home til after eight.
He takes the supper off the stove.
Dinner plans will have to wait.

He sits remembering back when
he'd call to say "I'll be late again".
She use to sit alone and cry.
Now he knows the reasons why.
It's a topsy turvy world.

Hugs her when she walks through the door.
Because that's what "good wives" are for.
Over done dinner by candle light,
like a "good husband" she asks for more.

She falls asleep in the easy chair,
like "good husbands" everywhere.
He does the dishes, sweeps the floor,
says "we don't talk much anymore
in our topsy turvy world".

Being good husbands and wives,
careing for each others lives.
Doing what needs to be done,
getting their loving on the run.
It's a topsy turvy world.

Verse I
See the footprints that we're making,
some will never go away.
Living like there's no tomorrow,
think there's no price to pay.

Verse II
We slash and burn our forests,
though they make the air we breathe.
Turn our heads and close our eyes,
in this land of make believe.

Chorus
The earth does not belong to man,
the earth does not belong to man,
the earth does not belong to man,
we belong to the earth.

Verse III
The politicians tell us,
just what we want to hear.
So we won't have to know the truth,
and live our lives in fear.

Verse IV
The earth is calling out to us,
determined to be heard.
Every mountain, every stream,
every mammal and every bird.

Verse V
But we don't have to remain silent,
There's so much we can do.
To keep this earth from dying,
it's up to me and you.

Verse VI*
We belong to the earth,
it does not belong to man.
It's time we stopped and listened,
to the rhythm of the land.

Just mahogany and horsehide glue,
machine heads and a ***** or two.
Plywood top, solid sides and back,
bone and fake ivory, ebony, and shellac.

Steel and bronze wire, to make her ring.
A well placed sound hole to let her sing.
But for love or money I played here every week,
for 30 years she has earned my keep.

Four star restaurants, or beer soaked bars,
or serenading a lover under summer night stars.
A joyous birthday, sad funeral of a friend,
she's always been there, on one I can depend.

Drunken'- Dancin' New Years Eve bashes,
barbequed sun baked poolside splashes.
St. Valentine's Day love songs, wine and roses,
or a smoky old blues club that never closes.

A nursing home sing along on St. Patty's day,
a hurricane party till we all got blown away.
Christmas carols by soft candlelight,
I've played this guitar most every night.

From Florida to Canada, Vegas to NYC,
from Frank Sinatra, to Conway Twitty.
Zeppelin to Bach, JT to Pink Floyd,
anything to keep me from being employed.

One night in Nashville Greg Allman played on her,
And asked me to join him, oh what an honor.
We make people happy, we bring them together,
when I play on her I am as light as a feather.

Some fell in love, and got married from our tunes,
some nights we're alone on sugar beach dunes.
She's filled up my tip jar, and filled up my heart.
Because of this guitar my life got its start.

I've sat up with her all night, when she was sick,
changed strings a million times, broken many a pick.
Caressed her, strummed her, as she dashed my fears,
cussed her and ****** her, as she tasted my tears.

With her I wooed my lover, until she married me.
She has been my addiction, and she has set me free.
They applaud for me, but she's really the star.
I know it's just wood and wire, but she's my guitar.
###====(==O==== )###====(==O==== ) ###====(==O==== )

*For my Takamine "Lawsuit" I bought in Nashville in 1982.

The caves of childhood dank and gray,
hickory musk linger on their walls.
I hid there..... from words.

Words of a worn out relationship,
too tired to leave,
they wore each other down to a nib of a human.

What hell it must have been
to squeeze out a drop of peace from each day,
knowing there would be more words,
and another attritive tomorrow.

Meaningless rantings echo still,
stinging and bighting at my heart.
Words,  petrified me.

I do not want to follow them.
I want to seal the caves,
dynamite the portholes,
never to return to the words.
How so, these many years,
I find my solace in words?
But my words, are my words.
They do not berate, or demean,
for I watch them like children
crossing a busy road.
I place them on the page
with care and respect,
yet I know not from where they came.
These words that save me,
words that raise me,
words that knead me, into me.

a longing for you
over took my pen tonight
for your voice was the night wind

and then with closed eyes
and full heart you came to me
your soft touch from miles away