For as long as there are whiskers
and tires bumping curbs,
they’ll be windsocks in the cornfield
directing all my words,
Tie shoes on the dance floor
is music to my ears –
quarters for the Jukebox
with songs I’ve heard for years,
When at last there’s no more whiskers
and Good-Years all are flat,
The winds across the cornfield
won’t remember all of that,
You and I will smile –
knowing that we tried,
It’s then you'll point at me and say,
"Hey, your shoes untied."
No comments:
Post a Comment