The old broad is 50 now. I'm 65. Every now and then when my ideas get lost and I have to get them back, we talk. Sooner or later, she tells me what to write. The day she stops doing that I'll quit writing.



MY OLD GUITAR AND I

I heard her whisper she'd be leaving soon
The sun is shining bright; it could easily be midnight
There is no light here in this room

I heard an ocean wave sailing with the tide
Heavens have a stormy face; nothing stays in just one place
Not all sailors race on the leeward side

CHO:          My old guitar and I drift from song to song
                     Take a lonesome melody
                     Write a rhyme and hope that she
                     Finds the time to call me when she's gone

BRIDGE:    I look with envy at the birds up in the sky
                     I see your face in every cloud that passes by
                     I hear an angel's voice + feel an angel's sigh
                     Your memory wakes me when I try to close my eyes


I heard her speak so clear on rivers, roads + rails
She'll never be too far away; maybe she'll come back some day
Keep her in my heart if all else fails

I heard a whippoorwill singing in the breeze
I really need to get some rest; ease the aching in my chest
Can't see the forest for the trees

CHO:          My old guitar and I drift from song to song
                     Take a lonesome melody
                     Write a rhyme and hope that she
                     Finds the time to call me when she's gone

(Has a neat melody. I intend to record it before I croak.)