A cornsilk mane, atop wiry frame,
laconic through a Gainseville rose,
accenting gravelly fountains,
brimmed with wine and lipped in nose.
Cigarettes packed, cherries owing,
moons and hearts all a-glowin’,
broken up into two jukebox sides,
‘neath the dark America snowin’.
Tracked-down treks , half-quarter decks,
memorized wrecks across states on
the simple studied beat–applying
his simmerful muddling heat:
“My girl, my girl, come idea with me,”
sly knocking we needed to slow,
hear a fender tap of that cherub-wing cap,
choruses now with us now in the know.