Here's another entry. It can't hurt to comment, friends.
Elegy for Brayton
Who can I trade my faking with?
Who knows the label Frankie Lane was on?
I miss (this is nuts!) your yip-yipping squeal,
Your killer sex appeal:
Your blue eyes, true lies, rakish and sweet are gone.
Your spazoid passes, your klutzy catch!
Your piercing gaze: You ladies, come-on!
You drove for us (drunk and screaming)
You—sober--beaming:
Your blue eyes, true lies, rakish and sweet are gone.
Your Everly tenor sometimes cracked.
We tongue picked on Folsom Prison,
Pumping our chests with your rusted weights
To stay the grizzly gates.
Your blue eyes, true lies, rakish and sweet are gone.
I’ve been down rivers and I’ve been down streams,
But, son, you were something, and you flow on,
ki-yi-yippy in that yodeling whine.
You walked a lonely, lonely line.
Your blue eyes, true lies, rakish and sweet are gone.
|
Threaded Mode
