On the road, Jack.
Hit the road, Jack.
Follow his footsteps?
Walt Whitman.
He wrote songs for himself.
You wrote for a generation
who followed a drummer
with a different beat.
Critics didn’t like your work.
But like you said, Jack,
critics tend to beat their meat.
Guilt
Sat you on Desolation Peak
not for 40 days and nights,
but 63.
There you tried to zen it away
but it didn’t happen.
So you drank
until you couldn’t remember.
Finally
You succumbed to booze, Jack.
But the road goes on.
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