A song for Bob

He carried music, the voice of Youth, so much on those weak shoulders
Eyes like boulders, lyrics hot, harmonica smoulders

A hooked crooked nose
No-one knows
what goes through his head

Hear him play that country guitar
Through a creaking door, ajar,
Through to Cash's house
With June too

Blood on the tracks
Stacks and stacks of stolen records
From journeys cross country
Bus hopping, pill popping, train don't stopping
Crazy!