Golly, I gotta find my old poem about our little coffee house "The Real Dirt" in NW DC that closed down about 1965. One of the guys who had been singing and playing some sort of balalaika looking thing with a neck about a yard long borrowed the paper that I wrote the poem on and started playing and singing the poem, composing on the fly . . . it was beautiful.

We all came back the next day and helped load up the tables, chairs, cups, dishes, coffee pots, etc. all the while singing "The Death of the Real Dirt". It was a sad day. Eu