It's the Dixie air that keeps us grounded.

Kind old sun,

feeds magnolias and slows the race down (it can't be won).


Out of money, low on on inspiration.

Days get hard.

Destination is the tie that binds us, it's in our cards.


Check the forecast, biblical flood rains.

It's only Tuesday, we're staying in again.

I'm longing for the weekend baby, I'm living for the weekend.

Just like all good working people do.


From a distance, I can hear the bluegrass.

Folks live well,

finding simple way to pass the days.

Time will tell.


I'm a drifter, I'm a northern sailor.

Not my scene.

Stimulation rises from the ashes.

It's never clean.


Sleep til just the day is over,

who needs sun.

When the pendulum is out of synch, the damage is done