Song of the High and Lonesome

Went up to Berkely on my birthday,

Some strange dream with a bear.

Sat in narrow tubes of metal,

Hurling our gifts into the air.

What with all the pomp and circumstance

Can a birthday bring to fold.

Strange illusion marked by slashes

Indicating we're headed old.

Not home you see, she doesn't like

To be called by that name.

Heart or hearth draws closer still

It is our language we have to blame.

What is it then, the sad strange word

We hold so hostile in ourselves?

Yet another laugh/trick

God marks in a book upon the shelves?

It's not the words that join together

Harmoniously to make the rhyme,

It's what lies there in between

That veins of gold and silver shine.
“For my birthday all I want

Is a dog with chewing rope.”

Do not bite the hand that feeds you,

It is that hand that bites the most.

So spoiled was I, can I, should I

See in my old life of past,

That I should renounce all held things,

To live lonesome on my mountain pass.

For up there, there is a sound

So solemn still you've yet to see,  

A fellow named Roscoe Holcomb,

A shepherd if it pleases thee.

No sheep to guide, no hens to feed,

He sits there in his mountain home.

That word again, so stuffed and idle,

He sits within it all alone.

“Hear me mountain!” The sound, it echoes

all throughout that shadowed pass.

“I am the king of the high and lonesome."

No man, no beast could cease so fast.

In the rippled rivers’ edge

A strange face smiling back at me,

All wrinkled and haggard (certainly not happy)

His smile is a eulogy.

For all the slices of reality

Bend the knee to conform to thee,

None of us are really happy,

Just illustrious chemistry.

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