“He stole away over
crisp
grass one
morning,
and the old
witch
did not call
him
back for she had
no
spell to curb the
love
of roving in
man.
She would not
hold
back his limbs
when
his heart was
gone
to the woods
were
dead flowers
hung
on brown
stalks
and the petals
turned
to slime if he
fingered
them for
November
was come
And
the frosts were
Abroad
all night.”
Book
of Days
Lament for Kesey
all
away all away all away all
draggin
'em all away
down
into down with
a
scream or a sigh
a
smile and a nod,
quiet
or in full cry
here
comes Death
draggin
'em all away
sneak
around corners
up
out of grates
eagles
and the ants,
spiders
and the cormorants,
draggin
'em all away
Damn
you Death,
I
piss on your shoes,
Father
of Blues
get
offa my land
or
I'll run you through!
And
who'll be there to
get
you when I do?
Never
could say goodbye
like
it had any kind
of
final rectitude,
any
essential rightness.
Whatever's
right, yeah?
Whatever's
true -
later,
not farewell.
As
in, see you around.
Death
is senseless
unless
we just pop over
into
some other place,
along
with the eagles and ants,
the
spiders and cormorants,
the
destitute and shameless,
the
brightest and best -
born
to be banished
banished
to be born.
One
stood in the moonlight
One
stood out in the crowd
One
stood under star blue sky
his
daydream turned up loud.
How
did this come to pass?
Don't
gimme no don't gimme no . . .
this
tractor don't run on horseshit,
Deboree,
just natural gas.
Some
folk come
to
stir it up
and
when it's stirred
they
split - simple as that.
Robert
Hunter 11.10.01
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