The itty bitty city kitty
She thought she was the best
She thought she was so witty;
Much better than the rest.

The itty bitty city kitty
Begged to be put to the test
That’s the reason for this ditty
She felt there was no contest.

The itty bitty kitty
Runs home to her nest.
She hates the nitty gritty;
Her voice loudly expressed.

The itty bitty kitty
Will always request
Travis Tritt and Conway Twitty
For her country music zest.

The little bitty kitty
In the cold she wears a vest.
She never learned to knitty
Though we’d have been impressed.

The itty bitty kitty
Takes scorn as just a jest.
She doesn’t need your pity.
She’s on a kitty quest.

The little bitty kitty
Likes her covers messed.
It kind of makes her giddy.
Likes her comfort best.

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.

If it wasn't for country music
If it did not belong to country music, there would be no music today.
The sounds of the good old country are what sad music.
the sounds of hank william, johnny cash, tex ritter, conway twitty.
Even elves sang country.
Rap would not manage without the upbeat sound of what is country.
The stars of today they love that old sound but some do not see.
Country music will never die.

I got my converse on
My hair slicked back
My blue jeans cuffed
A brand new tat
I'm just a rockabilly boy

Conway Twitty playing in my head
Got me singing along to Maybe Baby
Feeling too **** good
Just right, on a Saturday night
I'm just a rockabilly boy

I wanna get my baby on the dancing floor
Then back to my bed for a little more
We can do monkey
We can do the twist
I'm just a rockabilly boy

My eyes gaze over the table of food through the company and off into the distance beyond the mildew on the walls.

I would feel more comfortable collecting the cobwebs from this basement ceiling.

Instead, I try hard to seem interested in what others are saying while avoiding eye contact, and -

BANG!! It's time to eat. The moment I've been most waiting for. Now I can concentrate on the food and do what I really came for.

Never eat and run though. It's time to act interested in the others once more.

Karaoke. Who doesn't love an overly enthusiastic host hoisting a microphone in their face?

Thanks for the food but I don't feel like singing a Kenny Rogers song or a whoever the **** song of some twit whose been in the top 40 within the past 5 years, or 20 for that matter.

Thank Jupiter they are distracted. Now is my chance to slip out quietly. I make it out the door and find out that someone parked behind me.

what else do you got in that cd case? Any Conway Twitty by chance? Oh really. **** it, I'm next

If you were me,
you would be making the world a better place.

Or thinking about making the world a better place.

Someday, after you learn being me makes you
*******.
Really, dead center on the spects, carazy smart
seri-al-owzly simple minded
regarding pre-literal ideas that few, if any

besides you, me now, ever literally take for granted,
for God's sake.
Right, that's some good to be done-

set that blasphemin', God-blamin', goofball free.

If you were me,
you would be hoping nothing you are thinking
is really doing what you are thinking. But it did.

You ever been in an angel bar? I know where some are,
if I were you,
I'd take the dole and hang out widimall day. They are
here to serve. It's in their contract, and they love

leading expeditions into the unknown unknowns, ain't
never been this far before.
Okeh. That did it. Conway Twitty, I could not
have guessed...

Serious poetry, Nietzschean twit. Is laughable.

If you were me,
you would know this is in the cycle. This is whatchamightcall,
the way home, the short version-cut.

Say, Elvis, say south.
Say, Little Richard, say south.
Say, Jerry Lee Lewis, say south.

Say, BB King, say south.
Say,  David and Jimmy, Ruffin says south.
Heck most of the Classic Five was southern born.

The message is within the history of these southern born artists.
Where all mention above is still highly praised?
Alabama, Georgia, and Kentucky too created a feeling still bringing news.

Wilson Picket aka the Wicked one.
Jame Brown and Jean Terrell heritage are within the southern region.

If you don't know nothing comes from the south without gaining your attention.
Did I mention Dolly Parton"
Conway Twitty aka Harold Jenkins and Porter Waggoner.

Something within the spiritual birth.
Check the history of Chess Records blues artist.

By the way even Berry Gordy.

As I open the gates of heaven. I listen to the sweet music of Johnny cash.
As I board the train, as he sings the orange blossom special.
I take the train for the stage. Where there stood Patty page.
She was singing loud and strong.Beyond the clouds, the sky is always blue.
So true to hear.
As we traveled down the tracks. I have a sound that I member so well.
As Conway Twitty sang Hello darling
As we approached the end of the trail.
I heard the King Hank Williams Sr himself singing to God I saw the light.
As i left the train i could hear them all sing,
I walk the floors of heaven.
Do you still hear them sing

Give me your hand and let me lead you to the floor.
We're love dancing to whatever song is on?

Maybe some Sinatra, Martin or Tony Bennett.
Maybe Paul Simon or James Taylor and Carly Simon.

It doesn't matter, when we're love dancing.

Oh, you're shocked.
Maybe amazed to see the one you love acting this way.
But sometimes, things should be a surprised changed.

Play me some Paul, John, George and even Ringo.
It doesn't matter, as long as you dance along.

Let me slowly spin you aware.
As Mel Tillis or Conway Twitty belts out a song.
Throw in some Loretta Lynn or Lynn Anderson.

Whatever your choice for pure pleasure?

Maybe Marvin Gaye or Al Green or Barry White.
Just realize with them singing things might affect the night.

Play some Howlin' Wolf or Muddy Waters or some Rolling Stones.
Just realize in truth, we need know music to groove ourselves on.
Whisper to me.
And I whisper to you.

We be making more music when the morning comes.

He was a
taller and
much thinner
black bearded
roommate
in the place
I went
when I could not face
reality.
He snorted,
coughed, and hacked
while I tried to sleep.
Someone once
told me
that he didn’t shower
because beneath his beard
and sweat stained Tee
there were some
painful burns.
I do not know his name.
Still,  I hope he found
some semblance of peace
that even I have
yet to claim.

Older man
in the same facility
fifty to sixty something,
walking with a slight
spinal curve
and wearing his
cleanly pressed black button up shirt
along with his folded at the seams
to tight blue jeans,
seams normal enough,
but I hear him sing
Conway Twitty’s
“That’s My Job”
constantly.
Somebody told me
when he was younger
he watched his father
plant his face
on a cold metal rail
and let a train
smash out
his brains.

Farther back
when I was barely seven
I knew a sweet long haired man
who wore a dress
and pushed
an empty stroller.
He could have been
transgender then,
but I did not have
the experience to know
or desire to classify
or judge him.
Twenty years later
with seventy-five miles
between me and that city
I met a stranger
who came from there.
Jokingly to prove
I was from the same place,
I mentioned that man.
She gave me a name
that I had never asked for,
told me that he
was a veteran
from one of those
horrible wars,
and that Jet
had died a while ago.

I knew an angry lady,
violent, frustrated,
face curled in rage
because she hated
some unexplained pain.
She taught me
to love music
but despite the sweet
and safe melodies
of those old time songs
we both used to move to
I can still feel
the fear, and swollen skin,
the loneliness, and hurt
that she buried within.
She was as I am now
living but broken.

Locked into each other's arms
Passion burning in the pit of my stomach
We slow danced to Conway Twitty
As we stared into each other's eyes
I’ve never felt so secure
As our hearts wandered past the sea
Now all I know all need is to be with you
To touch you, talk to you
Stare into those deep meaningful brown eyes
And know that so much happier times are coming

When, I cut on my music to play?
It is that old style country sounds.
Nothing these country rock style artists with the rock guitars know.

In my truck
I might be listening to Buck(Buck Owens)
Or Conway (Conway Twitty)
I just believe that style and sound was so pretty.

Then, if I am at home?
It might be Johnny (Cash)
Or those original brothers -(Statlers)
Nothing against these rock style country stars. (with the roc guitars)

Give me Lynn(Loretta) or (Anderson).
I might throw in Tammy (Wynette)
And that lady with those pretty eyes called Barbara Mandrell

Then, who can't listen to Willie?
No last name needed.
Yes, I'm old-style country and guess I always be.

And I have nothing to hide just like Charley Pride.
Okay, I might have a taste for a little George Strait and Allan Jackson.
They remind me of that old style country passion.

There's a burning passion ignited by an arsonist's hot love for large,
wood houses standing pretty in **** City that are blighted & ******
in an era where it'd require no guts to fire-bomb *** Conway Twitty
& his trove of Loretta Lynn's ****** that wrapped her brunette kitty
& her #10 toe & 1 thoracical cavity that furnishes 1 right-sided *****

There's a burning passion ignited by an arsonist's hot love for large,
wood houses standing pretty in **** City that are blighted & ******
in an era where it'd require no guts to fire-bomb *** Conway Twitty
& his trove of Loretta Lynn's ****** that wrapped her brunette kitty
& her #10 toe & 1 thoracical cavity that furnishes 1 right-sided *****
to please the peccadilloes of day-dreaming-****-lapper Walter Mitty