The gypsy hymns and railway trails which you followed into the valley of your trials Lady Luck brought you enough street child wisdom and thief given kindness to turn the tracks around and the train whistle to wake me. Desert saint of your weathered ways with your thin wrists and moon gleaming lips Hope to you was like a blinding sunrise, painful to acknowledge, yet sorely lacking without Never could be without your Larkspur boquets and marigold wreaths August heat heavy with the scent of cypress trees Apollo of the dusty sea, flooded the cliffs with light like withering flames born from boxcar visions and a desperate hunger for that windblown hallelujah we chased down the starlit trestles like missionaries. Summoned from our streetcar medallions, vagabond nymphs, rumbling through moth-eaten states and barren dusks, lazy moon gazing upon our dolorous times and wild days and all our rough and rowdy ways. No need to heed the judgements of the stars. With the arid land so wild and lonesome- we weave our own muse into the railway line- followed back to when you were my home, and the streets were the laurel crown of your vagrant fortune.