Tangerines and grenadine and margarine.
I have been.
Far from home on an ancient summer day.
Those days were the epitomes of rock and roll.
We must dance and if we must be happy.
We loved. We left. We wept.
Those songs I wrote were like pieces of distant dust,
With the strange beauty of their own but never to be seen and never to be read.
That ole’ guitar was made from brass.
Yet its taste was that of glass.
I felt like it was a dream,
only to be confronted by the witty joking face of reality.
I was fed up no less.