We was out in the sticks down Highway Six And the crowd was just about right. The speed was too, so out I flew Like a stick of rollin’ dynamite.
“Course we kept it a secret from everybody ’cause, if our folks had found out, we’d all been off to military school, but then my buddy went and printed up flyers and distributed them at school sayin’ to come and see the ‘master of sparks‘ that night on jack-rabbit road which was Highway Six, our launch pad.”
These are children riding naked on their tourist pals While the hollows that pass for eyes swell from withdrawal As he lies on a mattress in a rat infested room Talking ’bout his family and the cold back home
It’s a dull, cloudy day here at Rancho DeNada, partially because of the weather.
That’s the gun range. Which I rebuilt after some assholes destroyed it. Picasso said every act of creation begins with an act of destruction. Maybe so.
Let’s tear some shit up.
Delaney wants to rescue old dogs and keep them out here on the farm. I told her one old dog out here waiting to be rescued is enough. Maybe I need one of those posters. It would look something like this. And sound something like this.
I can hear the Chuck-will’s widow over by the corner pond. He hangs out over there, I hang out over here. Sometimes we hear each other. I heard the coyotes earlier. Again.
I momentarily forgot how much I dig Jimbo Mathus‘ music. Then I heard this today.
Come find me, and we’ll have a good ole time.
I can’t even imagine what the end of this COVID-19 situation is going to look like. I’m not even sure how I want it to look.