A Bunch Of Lonesome Heroes.

A bunch of lonesome and very quarrelsome heroes 

were smoking out along the open road; 

the night was very dark and thick between them, 
each man beneath his ordinary load. 

“I’d like to tell my story,” 

said one of them so young and bold, 

“I’d like to tell my story, 
before I turn into gold.” 

But no one really could hear him, 

the night so dark

and thick

and green; 

well I guess that these heroes must always live there 
where you and I have only been. 

Put out your cigarette, my love, 

you’ve been alone too long; 

and some of us are very hungry now 

to hear what it is you’ve done that was so wrong… 

I sing this for the crickets, 
I sing this for the army, 
I sing this for your children 
and for all who do not need me… 

“I’d like to tell my story,” 

said one of them so bold, 

“Oh yes, I’d like to tell my story 
’cause you know I feel I’m turning into gold.”

I sit on my mothers sofa.

From the moment I walk through the door she’s so full of stories–

Look at this, see this, read this, hear this…

She talks and talks and talks…

I smile, I listen, I listen intently actually.

Because I know our time together is short.

I know all the time we have together is short.

I write this as she reads to me from a book she’s purchased for a dear family friend with cancer–

Again, she reminds me, I type like a moth trapped in a flame.



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