The poet cast a long shadow
as he took the stage.
A wraith worn from bowing down a thousand times
strumming that old Gibson
cracked and blonde
he sang some lines:
"Livin's mostly wastin' time
and I waste my share of mine..."
Names, faces and crowds just got bigger
for others, but such wasn't the case for
the truest troubadour of the Lone Star state.
He just did what he had to do,
coming, going as he pleased; living like a rake,
giving his all
for the sake of the song.
The gentle cowboy,
with words that ring as true today
as they did when,
under an eastern harvest's moon,
he was swept up in the wind.
We need him now,
just like we needed him then.