It was the blues and the booze and the Choctaw indian shoes

That led me to lose my sense of direction.

Upon reflection

I think it was fate

For how could we hate the beautiful tastes and the sound as we walked in our shoes on the musical ground?

Where the notes floated high high above as we’d lie

Together we would die into the quickening night

And we knew it was right.

So far out of sight we could see into eternities eyes.

But the blues told us lies and the booze was a cruise to a snooze.

The Indian shoes fell apart on the road that we took

And we,

Brought to book by the advancing of years and the ravaging action of too many beers

Sit now,

Two old fogies

Smoking too many stogies

Drinking tea from a straw.

What was that we swore?

That we’d never die?

Together we lie into the dark of the night.

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