I drink my fine wine straight from
it’s un-stoppered, long-necked bottle,
and I don’t abide by those cheep
hot dogs, or fail to spring for extra
croutons on my Wendy’s Side Salad.

I’ll play all the songs I write on a
dime-store guitar from the sixties and
tune the strings with a pair of pliers
while swearing up and down (and
all too often) that Fender Telecasters
are the way to go.

I’ve driven American all my life
and done so far too late and
far too fast and far too often
for my health and wallet to
warrant, all for the thrill of watching
the speedometer go up while
the gas gauge goes down.

And finally, when all is
said and done, I’ll probably sit
down late one night.

And over
the course of a couple of hours,
between sips of wine and bites of hot dog, just before I tune my guitar
(only a bit after I turn off the car),
I’ll write about it.