Now I lay me down to sleep
To slip into enchantment deep
Where roving mermaid colonies
Inhabit warm Calypso seas
With coral calls and starfish smiles
Crisscrossing uncharted miles

And from the waters wild but fair
We gaze at prowling ships up there
Rolling o’er our rippled sky
And peering down through plastic eyes
As if to draw us up by hooks
Into their lair of thieves and crooks

But no, among the waves I’ll stay
Until the harsh rays of new day
Consume this world of rare delight
And force me far from dreamy night
(Until another day subsides
And draws me back toward turquoise tides)

We were weeping by the missionary tree
In the company of wiser men than we
On the border of the black sand and the sea
As the sunset sighed an island reverie

From the fire bed a thousand sparks did rise
Upon the crooked laughs of spirit guides
Above the dewy wingspan of our eyes
And down into the swirl of shifting tides

Distant echoes bled forth from the graves
Of sailors buried deep beneath the waves
In coral tombs and ruby studded caves
Enshrining both the hero and the knave

Regardless of the folly of our thrills
In spite of what the clergy called our ills
Those crystal stars beat back Pacific chills
And forged a bond upon the bamboo hills

We were harnessing the missionary tree
In the company of duller men than we
Sweeping through kaleidoscope debris
As the sunset smiled upon our revelry

The last of six children
You made your way late
Through the humdrum of life
In the Volunteer state
Strapped to the hollows
Where your daddy and kin
Pulled coal from the mountains
And mine shafts within

The hum of the smokestacks
And the fog of the earth
Wore at your senses
And questioned your worth
While the cracks in the family
Like the cracks in the hills
Were as easy to slip through
As fortune’s goodwill

So you took to the bottle
And you took to the boys
With a thirst for the throttle
And the late barroom noise
While your mama and daddy
Sat at home by the phone
Sendin’ prayers for their youngest
Toward the gold plated throne

The folks down in Loudon
Remember too well
The night you rolled through
In your dust caked Chevelle
And the way it spun out
On a stray slab of ore
And careened down the *****
For the cold valley floor

The dirt in those hills
Never merited much
Beyond the black rock
Buried deep in its clutch
But the same soul that sprawled
Beside granddaddy’s grave
Was the same soul consumed
By the soil that day

When the April rains whisper
Their song to the pines
And the distant train whistles
Its lonesome steel whine
Deep in the thunder
Behind the grey hue
Your memory glistens
Like the late morning dew

The last of six children
You made your way late
Through the humdrum of life
In the Volunteer state
Pining for something
Your voice could not name
A dream and a dreamer
Too restless to tame

When the fire bed no longer spits out sparks
When morning’s rays refuse to pierce the dark
When the rivers of the brain have turned to dust
When ambition’s metal hinges start to rust

There’s always the back catalog
There’s always the back catalog

For in the chilly nights of winter’s touch
A cryptic cloud drapes down a morbid hush
Upon the once fair meadows of the mind
Clouding out clear vision from behind

But there’s always the back catalog
There’s always the back catalog

I’ll moan about this fog, yet see it through
In hopes of springtime’s early dawning dew
Upon the buds where revelation blooms
And melts away the dismal no-muse gloom

Then the back catalog can go away
Till the next dark night of the poet’s soul

This always was an acoustic gig;
A wood and wire affair
Steeped in the fresh folklore
And worn wool
Of our little streetlamp operas.

Our voices would ring rustic
(And rusted like tarnished brass)
Out open windows,
Through the rustling of haloed leaves,
And down into the streambeds of romantic recollection.

Our coffee was stiff;
Mixed with chicory
And spiked with shots
Of sure-footed tomfoolery—
But richer than our years should have allowed.

All the goodhearted ladies
And all the rye bottle boys
Would smile warm, backs reclining,
And sing out for all the years.
And we knew our songs well;

Our highways west blacktop ballads—
Our San Joaquin sunset sonnets--
Our arms-around-you-till-the-end tunes—
Our songs for new companions—
Our eulogies for our dearly departed.

Yes, this always was an acoustic gig.
But there’s no sense in penning an epilogue
To a story that’s still alive (though wounded).
So let’s continue the tale, friends,
And usher in another folk revival.

We were weeping by the missionary tree
In the company of wiser men than we
On the border of the black sand and the sea
As the sunset sighed an island reverie

From the fire bed a thousand sparks did rise
Upon the crooked laughs of spirit guides
Above the dewy wingspan of our eyes
And down into the swirl of shifting tides

Distant echoes bled forth from the graves
Of sailors buried deep beneath the waves
In coral tombs and ruby studded caves
Enshrining both the hero and the knave

Regardless of the folly of our thrills
In spite of what the clergy called our ills
Those crystal stars beat back Pacific chills
And forged a bond upon the bamboo hills

We were harnessing the missionary tree
In the company of duller men than we
Sweeping through kaleidoscope debris
As the sunset smiled upon our revelry

"Trudging the plains
Of the day-to-day grind
We drag through these grasses
Embittered and blind!

The land of beyond
Yet beckons, it’s true
And gone are the golden
Days of our youth!

Those marble cathedrals
Have crumbled to dust
And lie as cold rubble
Upon the earth crust!

Yet, sacred the soil
Remains on these hills
And hallowed the call
Of old fortune’s goodwill!

So gather the clans
And sound the ram’s horn
For out of the ashes
New soil is born!!

Our race is not finished
Our song but half sung
Though light may not tarry
The Day remains young!!!

Now everybody back to work."