5:20 a.m. Sunday morning and I wish I was coming down but my nerves

are as worn out as a faded pair of my old blue jeans

The roads been tough and I saw my share of hells back when Jack

could still mumble poems between shots

now there ain't never going to be no lockout up on old Desolation

who's got that cool swing-time jazz in his notebooks and his eyes

digging the  asphalt and the whiskey and another high this evening//

it's just sad that the be-bop's lost its jive