Stunted growth they said
As I came back to consciousness
And rubbed my head
Who goes there I demanded?
Knowing my mistake almost at once,
I could smell their old spice
The grevious knights.
The ghost of Gram Parsons was late
And I was up shit creek.
Where to go from here?
And me without a Palomino.
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In the grand tradition of preachers of yore, I come to you with hat in hand hoping for a little something to pay for the booze. Or booze.
4 comments:
So--Gram Parsons would have been the ghost of Tuesday future (had he shown up)? Bastard.
GB, you have mad poetry skilz. I am so jealous. Here is a lame haiku tribute:
Oh, Gospel Bob, dude
How your poetry inspires
and confounds me true.
does anyone else smell an epic?
Okay. You had me at Gram Parsons. But to conjure up the spirit of Buck Owens in a flurry of hallucinatory images typically induced by peyote? Damn. Take me on that journey GB and I won't even mind if you DON'T have the horse! Roll over Hunter S. Thompson!
Nice brother. More please!
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