from this week in November, 2017 (I was 73)
A half century is a blink of an eye
same old catcher in the same old rye
shots still fired in downtown Dallas
same old hatred same old malice
Took a road less traveled and forsaken
wish it had been the one not taken
the one called Hope to a land called Promised
to lay by still waters where breezes are warmest
but we rode the bullets down the cross-haired sight
to end somewhere else than we thought we might
No comments:
Post a Comment