On a gray morning in October,
I am alone in the truck.
I'm going to work for somebody else.

I would rather be writing,
hearing a harpist play
Tabhair Dom Do Lámh.

Alone again in the delivery van
sometimes I scream
I hate working here!

It doesn't really help
but it exhausts the thought
and purges it.

When my head is cleared of anger and gloom,
I hear the bodhran and the pipes.
I can listen to myself spill what I see and feel.

Words rattle around in my skull.
Where do they come from?
Whiskey soaked, half-eaten brain cells perhaps?

I remember a few of the better phrases.
Will the lost ones ever come back?
I would place a cloak on the shoulders
of a prodigal utterance,
put a ring on it's finger-o
and a wreath of umlauts on it's head.

If the verse came back
I would whisper,
Give me your hand.
I would forgive it for going astray.
I have no right to judge wanderers.
A roving string of gabble is welcome and wound here.


Originally posted to ruleoflaw on Fri Oct 04, 2013 at 08:24 PM PDT.

Also republished by Badger State Progressive, Rebel Songwriters, J Town, and Shamrock American Kossacks.

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