First of a Dying Breed

[couchgrouch]

The First of a Dying BreedIt's long past midnight and moonlight over Bouldershines silver like the hair down Emmylou's shouldersI sip from my pint and let my pen be a saberdrawing blood from pieces of motel papersome say I shoulda quit cos Music Row is a racketa man's gotta be a hack if he's gonna hack itmaybe if I was bitter my sad songs'd be sweeterbut only fools sour their souls before meeting St. Petertonight I see Hank in the back of that lonesome Cadillacyou've gotta view dyin' youngas a vict'ry not a defeatand see Hank as your fathercos he was the first of a dying breedthough sawdust ain't talcum and whiskey ain't mouthwashsome ladies like makin' love with minstrels and outlawsbut none of them know feelings I've kept hiddenremain in the rhymes of songs that I've writtenafter they go my rooms fill with ghostly voicesechoes of their whispers and old singers' voicesshould I die on some crossroads like highway crowbaitmy shady lovers will find these songs in probatetonight I see Hank in the back of that lonesome Cadillacyou've gotta view dyin' youngas a vict'ry not a defeatand see Hank as your fathercos he was the first of a dying breedwell, my skin is yellow as a Marlboro filtershadows and mem'ries look to my Gibson for shelterit'd be a waste of flesh to give me a transplantso I'll fall from life's zenith like Townes Van Zandtmy prayers are a cane pole over a whiskey rivertrying to fish one more day...one more gig from my liverif I finish this song and a lonesome heart can hear itself-destruction may give birth to a creative spiritbut he's gotta see Hank in the back of that lonesome Cadillache's gotta view dyin' youngas a vict'ry not a defeatand feel Hank is his fathercos he was the first of a dying breed(c)2006 Robert George