Slim Pickens

[raga/blues]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He rode the bomb
to the bottom,
of the my country
tis of thee,

sweet liberty laid
upon the bed, satin
sheets ruffling in
the wind,

rescue me!,
way past
who know's when,

no meaning in
comprehend, "he rode
the bomb!" I say,

water hot, breeze
blowing thru the
curtain's shade,

there comes a
knocking early at
my wired door,

in silence I say,
"Be Gone!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~WIREMAN

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