The Wick is Still Lit

Now listen here you old dog

You ain’t no croaking toad

No, invalid tortoise a toe away from crawling on your belly

You ain’t no tourist in these badlands

You were made and born here. So, get off that curbside. Scrape yourself off the pavement and try to fly or die trying

Look here you goon, you goblin of a certain kind of uncertainty, you ghostly dreamer adding fishing weights to the bottom of your whiskey glass Not much of a catch to that one

You ain’t no dog worth throwing a bone for, let alone getting to know But, oh the places you’ve seen and people you’ve known and home that you sought out and howled to the moon for

You ain’t no pauper but a vagabond king gone haywire You ain’t no jewel thief because a rose should do just fine

And with the time the pendulum swings just like it always has and you’ve always had a bad rap but you’re just stuck in some mud beside that ole pickup truck You ole dog get walking and make your way to that home

There are empty pages

Bottles untouched

And spirits still packed finely

Find a punctuation mark and stick it to ‘em;