Not long after the boy became a man
Did he first pluck his first guitar. He strummed
The instrument like milk on honey, jam
On toast, a cigarette that’s tinged with vellum
Tasted ‘twixt a woman’s opened book.
The adolescent dropped away the day
He played his tune. The music shook and took
The souls of list’ners far and wide, they say.
And where he went from there, a cubicle
in Des Moines. Fame, they also say, is fickle.

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