Hushed between the scotch and the spudnut,
I was checking my bags --
Heels cooling in a bucket, steam rising all John Hartford.
Borrowed me a front-porch farm door,
Hand-me-downed a little bruised, ripe dusk,
And singsonged the best damn singsong I never, ever wrote.
Now I had planned to fishbowl, see?
Or as much as I'd planned anything, I guess.
Just sort've look out there into the bigness and rest awhile.
Maybe tune the radio to somewhere in between,
Or help the pirate ship find the X
If I got too bored, or the notion.
Creak! As the weathervane dovetails.
Crack! Goes the whole town's neck
As the weathervane cockle-doodle-doos toward what it was pointing at.
Covered up my eyes and ears --
Lord, I was much too young and sore!
But got bit on the nose, kissed all on the floor.
Now, picture you're very small,
And you've nowhere to sleep
But across the hammers of a baby grand,
And it's really playing, boy!
Or maybe you suddenly remember why you love yourself so much,
And you think, "Good god!" and God goes, "Yeah?"
Scalp like a steamship horn blast,
Dropped the pail down into the well,
And pulled the clean and cool on out of that blessed black.
Jangle of the silver platter,
Rustling of bibs,
Going town to town serving the freshest of ha ha ha.
Oh ha ha ha...