Yeats as a Hobo on a Train

My bluegrass hours were many sleepless days before as the “turning and turning in the widening gyre” comes round to collect me.
The train slowed and I jumped aboard ticket be damned.
I shall write along with the click clack of the tracks to the tune I strum with my pen in hand.
My ink has the mic and and a hint of inspiration in the night.

My gun of life still has a firing pin and I aim it toward the horizon.
I sip Sweet home made beer and gaze upon campfire lights.
As an adventurer I may be considered a common failure.
But, I would rather fail on the tracks and trails than succeed on a age old couch of mundane daily chores.
I cannot pick or even strum a tune on a guitar any longer.
I can write, listen, and record a vision quest and spirit for life like a poet must.
My Mole Skin is my deer, bear, and coon skin trappings all in one.
I am a city boy living in the country and can hear the music but can never play.
Writing as fast as they play, I record my fears of a vocalist or banjo player standing overhead on a river bridge.
Swift fingers and a country twang.
Listen, drink, kiss, and just forget tomorrow.
Tonight We are a gang of merry souls and drink of the home made cherry mountain malt.


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