It’s a small town event. Woodlake, California. East side of the San Joaquin Valley. 14 miles from where all those “Lindsey” olives you see on your grocery store shelves come from. The Woodlake Echo, says, “In the foothills of the Sequoias”.
I’m a beanspiller
I’m a squeaky wheel
I’m the guy that speaks up
and ruins the deal
and when you get hurt
I’m the change
you loose in your couch
I’m a leaky faucet
I’m a tree that weeps
I’m a tattle tale
I’m a canary that sleeps
I can see you coming
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I saw her in a music store in Fort Worth, Texas
I’d driven in to buy some strings
It was like getting hit by a little fist in my solar plexis
when she said, “Can you help me tune this thing?”
She had a smile. A thin disguise
One big question mark hiding in her eyes
Well, it must be football season
The band is on the field
The music trembles in the tree tops
as it tumbles down the hill
It echoes off the black top
as the drummers do their drill
I feel your breath on my shoulder
There’s a bell hangs out the window
When the…read more