I left the home of the meadowlark
For a land found more oft' in my dreams.
A more noble land than my native park,
With its rubble of meaningless schemes.

And the song that the meadowlark sang to me
In my heart will forevermore burn.
I can only say that it seemed to be,
"Once you've gone you can never return."

So I set my course for the highest mount
On a path where few have tread,
To the great unknown where the masters roam,
Through the valley of the dead.

Neither bard nor sage ever wrote a page
Of diabolical lore
That could ever compare to the evil found there,
Past the gates to the valley of horror.

Men had left their bones as stepping stones
Which glowed with a phosphorus light.
They lighted the way for my feet of clay
As I stumbled through the night.

But I sank in the mire of my own desire
While I groped along in the dark.
And I thought I would die to the mocking cry
Of that dreadful meadowlark.

Then the helping hand of a dying man
Reached to pull me back on the way.
And I rested there in the August air
Where I longed for the light of day.

And I sang a song as I traveled on
In the light of a new day's sun.
'Twas a song of hope I could reach the *****
Where great battles had been won.

When I reached the glen at the mountains end
Then I knew my journey was done.
I took pleasures there and with utmost care
I sought for a course back home.

And now I knew that the bird sang true;
I had aged in the course of time.
And the past I had scorned; now I deeply mourned
And with sadness learned his rhyme.

Although your road runs true, you can never undo
A life born of your own desire.
Nor, ever return from a destiny earned
By deeds lit from the souls own fire.

And the song that the meadowlark sang to me
In my heart still continues to burn.
I can only say that it seemed to be
"Once you've gone you can never return."

In a land where the sun’s always shining,
On an isle where young hearts should be free,
In a hut made of grass waits a lady,
Who’s wet tears make the salt of the sea.

In my youth I once sailed to the islands,
Met a girl who I knew as Marie.
We embraced, two young hearts, filled with passion—
Then I left, but she still waits for me.

How I long to return to the islands!
How I’d love to go back to the sea,
To a place from my past and the passion
I once shared with my lovely Marie.

In my body, now aging and feeble,
I still dream of the place I should be—
In a hut made of grass with a lady…
The passionate, lovely Marie.

My grandson came to live with us today.
It costs a lot to have an extra boy.
It costs so much for modern boys to play;
No longer such things as a dollar toy.
He eats enough for four and then eats more.
His high priced clothes must have a hole or tear.
His pants are low and dragging on the floor;
His cheeks covered only by underwear.
It seems my truck is always low on gas
I let him drive; I know life here seems dull.
And the dear boy is always out of cash*
He never fills the tank completely full.
In spite of all he’s really not a care
We’d rather have him here than have him there

I’ve known some Wiccans in my time,
Sky clad witches!
Wicked!  They

... chanted spells in words that rhyme.
I watched,
waiting,
wanting to play.

I neither sought portion nor spell—
not trusting the magic of it.
I thought them ******--
all raised in Hell—
whose sinful flesh I yearned to get.

I met a witch named Sally Sue,
I took a longing for that Miss.
You won’t believe what she could do
with just a nickel and a kiss.

Her beauty rare,
she stole my heart,
that sky clad witch named Sally Sue.
She taught me secrets of her art.
She taught me things I never knew.

When moonlight’s full on Solstice eve,
their gossamer **** bodies dance.
And power men cannot conceive
is raised to give new life a chance.

Daughters from Hell? These Wiccans—
Nay!
With grace and beauty they create
more peace and love than words can say
to save a world, dying with hate.

But in despair we had to part—
I and my Wiccan, Sally Sue.
She left me with a broken heart
to do what only Wiccans do.

There's a bad stretch of road on Route Sixty-Six,
  that I've often heard truck drivers say,
is silent and bare, with a chill in the air,
  where travelers have oft' lost their way.

And the birds never fly in its overcast sky--
  the air always seems strangely still.
The dogs never bark and the moon casts a strange
  eerie shadow across the mill.

Most truckers avoid accepting a load that
  would cause them to pass through or near.
But I've never believed and refuse now to heed
  tales of superstition and fear.

Back in October of seventy-three came
  an offer I couldn't decline.
For a truckload of brew would be soon overdue--
  if no driver was found who would sign.

Having hard luck for cash, I took the dispatch,
  with no reason in my mind to fear.
I'd carry the load past that bad stretch of road
  and folks there would all have their beer.

With my cargo all sound I was soon out of town,
  on the road that led to the mill.
I felt happy and free--I'd received half my fee--
  I left bad luck behind on the hill.

Then a lightning bolt flashed with a thunderous crash
  And the sky turned a strange colored hue.
The clouds poured out rain in a world gone insane
  And a chill froze my flesh through and through.

I drove through the storm feeling sad and forlorn,
  then I rounded a hazardous curve,
where I got a surprise, as a sight caught my eyes,
  that caused me to veer and to swerve.

At the edge of the road stood a lady in white,
  with her thumb out to ask for a ride.
I hit the brakes hard and I slid to a stop.
  The girl eagerly climbed up inside.

I popped her a beer and the lady began
  to talk, as she sipped at her brew.
From the words that she spoke, it was clear she was broke
  and had missed more meals than a few.

So I took her to dine a little past nine
  at a cafe we passed on the road.
I watched as she ate all the food on her plate.
  then she smiled, as her story she told.

She sought a new life to escape all the strife
  of a past she could barely endure.
She'd left all to be free from her past misery,
  taking naught but the clothing she wore.

She told of her schemes to build on her dreams--
  to someday be a nurse wearing white.
She was nobody's fool--she could breeze through the school--
  and she'd work as a waitress at night.

When I got up to go she told me goodbye--
  said, "I know there's a place here for me."
She thanked me and smiled as she told me her name,
  "Just call me Nurse Nancy," said she.

So I paid off my tab and got into my cab feeling
  glad to be back on the road.
I soon reached the mill and delivered the ale.
  I was proud to be rid of that load.

The storm had now eased to a mild autumn breeze
  so I turned back the same way I came.
I hummed an old song as I rambled along
  and I wondered Nurse Nancy's real name.

I reached the cafe at the break of the day,
  so I pulled in for coffee and eggs.
When a waitress came by I said, "Tell Nancy hi!"
  And her hot coffee scalded my legs.

I had startled her so she had let the *** go
  and the glass shattered over the floor.
The poor waitress said, "You dishonor the dead
  making such jokes inside of this door."

I was sorely confused, feeling some sort of ruse
  had made me the **** of a scam.
But the glances and leers and the waitress's tears
  gave me cause to ask her to explain.

I could see her surprise by the look in her eyes
  that a trucker like me hadn't heard
Of a girl who'd been slain, named Nancy McClain,
  who'd been dead now for nearly ten years.

A man had came in from out of the rain
  to attacked her here in the cafe.
Shot her twice in the head and left her quite dead.
  then he somehow had gotten away.

She had worked for six years saving tips in a jar--
  "To pay for her schooling," she said.
But Nancy the nurse had left in a hearse;
    Nancy now rested safe with the dead.

There are poems that say in a lyrical way
  every thought that a man may employ.
But what lies in a heart one can only impart by the
  music a song may enjoy.

For music rings clear when it reaches our ear,
  bringing tears and laughter and hope.
It can sound the same as the autumn rain
  and say things that mere words can't emote.

There is music that's born in the heart of a storm,
  amid flashes of lightning and din.
Its a rushing sound of floods coming down,
  like the marching of ten thousand men.

It can sound the same as the cold autumn rain,
  saying things words can never explain.
Its a score so sad it can drive a man mad--
  so I cried as I drove in the rain.

There are things I believe and things that I know
  there are some things I just can't explain.
But I've driven that road with many a load,
  and I never saw Nancy again.