In a hovel
In the middle
Of the dark moor

Lives our favorite
Anti-hero
From our folklore

He is waiting
For electric
Thoughts to surface

If you're wond'ring
Is he wand'ring
Yes, he sure is

But he nightly
Comes to sleep here
In his old shack

Where he'll always
Feel that he can
Find his way back

'Dines on squirrel,
Hand-picked field greens
...and an orange

Never mending
That old roof leak
Or that door hinge...

'Talks of hellfire
And of brimstone
Oh what is it

'Sends a person
To their limits
When they visit?

Maybe it's his
Dissertation
On "what's out there"

Or his casting-
Out the demons
From his armchair

Or perhaps his
Concrete notions
Of what truth is

And his staunch wit
Which at times can
Be just ruthless

Yet he's kind and
Truly loving
When I visit

Kindly, warmly,
Locking my gaze
Oh what is it

Makes a person
Want to stay far
From the bustle

Separating
From the life mass
And the hustle

Singing songs to
Phantom longings
And the west wind

And then only
Posthumously
Will his song end

And it's true that
Dissonant, he
Finds his thoughts are

Bestow blessings
On his blind eyes
And his guitar