The troubadour is still bemused. Several of the bike-admirers come up, demanding to know what he said to her in that mystical mink-clad limo. "I sang to her", he replies, amazed. He stands and again withdraws the Martin from its case and strikes a minor modal chord, a plaintiff riff that conjures up the night wind on the northern sea, and sings in slow, light tones:

Salty Dog Sings to the Goddess
 
 

I dreamed my cold eyes met within the sea
A wave, and smashing waves, and then cold night
And buffeted, the torment told my brain,
"Unmoor the mind  to waking light,
And once more see".

I woke, and light within my eyes
Revealed the sea, and I, and mind, were mine
Arts of design and sensitive intent
Created on a moment's pulse
And spirit's bent.

Minds dreaming godhood up are all pretense;
But Goddesses who touch our minds are commonsense.
Containing seas, and eyes, in tissues of delight
Colouring dawn, but scented in the night.
 

He packs up the axe, wiping a tear of his own and smiling at the lasses, bottoms up his drink, slaps the sad poet on the back and whispers to him, "Grow long your hair, and they will come!" and passes through the door into the dim moonlit night. The sound of an Indian's deep throated roar is heard burbling and echoing outside the tavern, and fading slowly down the long highway toward the moon.