Tuesday, March 18, 2008


churchy boys, wauling down on 7th street
tappy with some hymnals, and jumping
with their fever, oh lordy, if my old gray
pants, if

but i don't listen to the whispering of the son
no sugah, don't make absolution, shining at
the greyhound stop, smiling to the cadillacs
clicking nickels, in my old gray pants, if

young sammy ran with the hard cap fellas
while his momma rocked, jumped up to a polka
and sang along in black and white, to her
emerson deluxe, crocheted for salvation, yes

if my old gray pants can keep their magic
you know that pennies find their way, but
dimes are silver, last forever, small and tidy
and my pocket's wide, and deep, only

i haven't told you, cause i keep my secrets
they took my place, at the greyhound stop
where the cadillacs they roam, proud and
sleeker than you know, sniffing for my scent

jesus find me, lost away on 33rd, wiping
chevies, and keep me young, just til these
old gray pants, they lose their charms, if


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