Couldn’t tell me about the war.
Didn’t know what it was for.
They raised the dead. They did a dance.
We never really stood a chance.
He left his home with his guitar,
thought that he was going far.
Hollywood was not a place
for a human in the race.
Couldn’t tell me what was right
then raised his flask to angel flight,
as trumpets sweetly smoothed the air,
ones I didn’t know were there.
They say the highway his home,
a perpetual kind of Rome.
He’s been to every single town.
He’s lived it up, and lived it down.
Couldn’t tell me about a God
on the shores of old Cape Cod,
the only word he spoke, a name,
a flicker of archaic flame.
And as the sun beat down the day,
he reeled his line and went away.
And though the road he faced was long,
he tramped a beat and hummed a song.