Most of All

Nothing can separate me from you/ Nothing so true/ It just must be that I was made for you/ Just must be true/ There is nothing that I would not do for you/ You kinda grab me/ You think you have me/ And you do

The Pegram Blues

I've gotta half-ton truck and two tonna regret/ I got a 4 by 4 but I'm drownin' in debt/ Suicide is the only resort but my insurance company said that's a bad bet/ I'm singing the Pegram Blues and I ain't even hit Nashville yet

Too Much Yesterday

We are condemned by nostalgia/ We are bound up in sentiment/ Nothing is as it once was/ And nothing will ever be the same again/ A generation locked away by memories/ No joyful trap to fall in/ And no escape from that/ We have no glorious future/ When we are imprisoned in the past

On Familiar Ground

I trod these hills before and slogged my way through these verdant valleys still wet with morning dew/ Was I among the many or the few/ Who trundled across grasses green above the knee and weeds still higher?/ I had the sense there I had been before, perhaps many times navigating the compass of dreams in the strange parlance where no GPS may guide

Just a Thought

In American football, there are no loose ends.

Out of Water

I am as lost as a Norseman caught in the South Wind/ With trade wind tides pulling me away again/ I am a Polynesian frozen in an Arctic field/ I am a fruit tree in the desert that never will yield

No Set Equation

There is no quotient or coefficient that can make decisions about love more efficient/ 'Cause love don't work that way/ There is no script to this play/ Love is no quaint old notion/ It always comes with mixed emotion/ Love turns more mercurial almost every day

Like a Weed

I never want to say "could have"/ I never want to hear "would have"/ I never want to feel should have/ I haven't and I'm not/ Not on this blighted range/ Where life always turns the page faster than you can read it/ Lost in all the rage of doubt- You just don't need it

Bring Out Your Dead

Bring out yer dead/ Bring out yer dead/ A pretty young girl lies decomposing in the sun/ That is the end of her days of fun/ Bring out yer dead/ Bring out yer dead/ A nice young fellow who should have run/ Found himself at the wrong end of a gun/ Bring out ya dead/ Bring out ya dead/ A poor old banker who just lost his head/ And forgot what his psychiatrist said/ From his penthouse, he found a quick way to the ground floor/ It is a damn shame he did not use the door/ Bring out your dead

Joy of Europe

A Work of Fiction (any resemblance to any person living or dead is a darned shame): A friend of mine- a genuine lady that I have had the pleasure of knowing since the days of high school hijinks- recently divorced. To celebrate her new found freedom, this lady who I shall call "Karen" decided to treat herself to the Grand Continent. The voyage did not start well as our world traveler could not fly directly to Europe from Nashville but had to go on a connector flight first to tourist paradise Detroit. Her fellow travelers insisted she had to try the freshwater mussels harvested in a nearby Great Lake or maybe it was the wonderful ground turkey Swedish meatball, but whatever the case, upon landing in Norway, she had to deplane in fashionable Delta Airlines' blanket sarong for her trip to the Oslo emergency hospital for fluid restoration. Needless to say, she landed in a grim and morose country, still mourning the worst crime, a senseless mass murder, that had ever visited that little nation. Upon release from hospital, Karen toddled around for typical tourist jaunting, only to meet some nice African gentlemen who decided to liberate her purse and passport by means of broken English and threats with sharp, pointy objects and then insisted that she undress, she feared for an obligatory rape which must be bon ton this season for attractive, blonde unaccompanied American female tourists, but all these non-Scandinavian gents wanted was to make sure that Karen was not concealing a money belt. Not too much of a disappointment by not being forced to submit further, poor Karen had to request the assistance of the United States Department of State without proof she was even an American. In this security conscious age, they do not make easy to replace a stolen US passport, and how beside her Southern accent and perfect American idiom could Karen prove that she was . . . well, "Karen". Fortunately, in her college days, she met someone who is now a Foggy Bottom honcho who managed to replace her official document and had it catch up to her by the time she reached Paris. Karen managed to make it to London just in time to be locked down in her hotel until the authorities are able to put down the ongoing riots. Wow- that is what I call a trip- I had better call Karen's travel agent now.

Memory of Water

The withered field too dry to yield/ The cow ever seeking is not a camel/ No oasis in this newborn desert/ Just forest turned kindling/ This dust bowl summer/ Is way beyond a bummer/ Bones bleached white by striking sun/ No swimming hole, no splashing fun/ A dry bed creek where a river once run/ No fish pond poling/ No great catch today/ The rain just seems to stay away/ Oh forlorn prairie, oh cindered land/ Perhaps the Lord will lend a hand