Mrs. Sara
Ain't nothin' to do
But to set down and sing
And rock about how Sarah took wing
Born in a stable to a long hair tribe
Learnin’ the language of Dylan bojibe
Sunbeams of gold grew out of your head
As you painted with words like the Grateful Dead
And were taught to deny the big brass bed.
A church mouse with cats on a tall white steed
Followed backyard creeks to a patch of weed.
He sang ballads of love like a rolling stone
His songs of protest exposed all the bad
Everyone followed, all on their own,
But where were the songs of his mom and his dad?
Fast food employment and worldly enjoyment
Why should you live alone?
There’s a slow train coming around the bend
And everybody’s getting stoned.
Now the French girl, she’s in Paradise
Some say she’s naughty but all say she’s nice.
Let the details come—oh please don’t spare us
New York, London, Piqua, Paris.
Go for romance, drink the whispers all,
Catch the muscled billows of love that fall
Feel the arms that embrace you for all you’re worth;
He’s had them around you since your birth.
June 28, 2003