round the mountain

twenty paces

thare's no sense in squabblin'
'cause Tenne cain't ssee
that i ain't got no use fer Dixie

dream

would
you
take
your
fingers
from
the
inside
of
me
and
slide
them
across
your
guitar
strings
so
that
i
can
come
when
you
have
to
leave
?

tremor

sanctions
our
ability
to
cleave
to
essential
vibrations
beyond
the
plastic
bravado
of
the
societal
antichrist
pandering
his
wares

a
trickle
of
water
from
the
tip
of
an
icicle
wet
my
tongue
with
enough
soluble
truth
to
remember
him