Songs of the day (6/26/2010): Merle Haggard - Warm Red Wine
The Stanley Brothers - The Little Glass of Wine
Cowboy sipped Chardonnay from a grass-green bottle as the sun escaped behind the vastness of land. Finally alone again and at last, stabbing the fire calmly.
Years ago, Cowboy began aging his chapped heart in an oak cask, injecting subtle nuances you can feel only on the nose.
He got rowdy last night on things most of us would consider the stuff of horses. Clover, dandelion, elder. There was a fight next and he won. He slept heavy and woke sore.
Cowboy gets happy, stomping through town from time to time. He covers his rankness in a tonic, then sets off for the rooms where people gather, where he can get a glass. He smiles from the first taste of purple sweetness on his lips until the last. Every red cent vanishes on drinks for women. And he goes home with one, always. Sobs in the morning as the sun pulls him out of bed and down the tracks again.
At church now and then, he believes. The preacher calls him Son. The self same wine flows through him, he thinks, so he knows it's true.
When he dies, stabbed and trampled by it all, everything, Cowboy's blood will the color of an exquisite Malbec, finer than any that's ever existed, beading up in the sand.
Years ago, Cowboy began aging his chapped heart in an oak cask, injecting subtle nuances you can feel only on the nose.
He got rowdy last night on things most of us would consider the stuff of horses. Clover, dandelion, elder. There was a fight next and he won. He slept heavy and woke sore.
Cowboy gets happy, stomping through town from time to time. He covers his rankness in a tonic, then sets off for the rooms where people gather, where he can get a glass. He smiles from the first taste of purple sweetness on his lips until the last. Every red cent vanishes on drinks for women. And he goes home with one, always. Sobs in the morning as the sun pulls him out of bed and down the tracks again.
At church now and then, he believes. The preacher calls him Son. The self same wine flows through him, he thinks, so he knows it's true.
When he dies, stabbed and trampled by it all, everything, Cowboy's blood will the color of an exquisite Malbec, finer than any that's ever existed, beading up in the sand.
No comments:
Post a Comment