Alone Star
Life and limbo in a motel lobby,
Call it a career or call it a hobby,
Grab your free cup of coffee and a muffin and the road goes on.
Ask a good question get a sorry excuse,
you wonder what the weather’s like in Baton Rouge,
(got you thinking ’bout them FEMA trailers rotting out in Arkansas).
Sometimes you think about spinning the truth
in government-issue bullet-proof shoes.
Dropping names, dropping calls, dropping pills,
drop the CD off with A&R in Nashville,
with a five dollar Scratcher so the bastard might remember your name.
You carry a tune in your wallet everybody likes to hear,
it’s gotten frayed around the edges from sitting on your rear,
driving place to place, play it over and over and over again.
Do you know that song spent a month on the charts?
Sorry, I don’t, can you hum a few bars?
When your pen’s out of ink and the wells run dry,
and you ain’t felt a good hard rain in a while,
maybe it’s time to chill out someplace…
maybe Southern Nevada.
You got your truck stops, honky tonks, and taco stands,
another lone starving artist looking for a good band,
but that’s more mouths to feed,
and you’re one taco short of a combo platter.
Champagne taste on a Lone Star budget…
got room for one more and that about does it.
Just another song about another songwriter,
may you never cross the center divider.
Another tumbleweed caught on a fence,
another used car with some whiskey dents,
another bottle rocket with a really short fuse,
another business card you won’t ever use.
Another lost soul sharing her bed,
another open wound, another tourniquet,
another two cents in the old tip jar,
and another and another and another and another Lone Star.
Another drunk with an irritating laugh,
that’s another four minutes that you’ll never get back.
Another bounced check, another Freudian slip,
another good intention, another bad trip.
Another talent booker, another half-empty room,
another janitor leaning on a push broom,
another suicide string on an out-of-tune guitar,
and another and another and another and another Lone Star.
Another wrong turn down a dead end street,
another wolf dressing up to look like a sheep,
another five hundred miles without stoppin’,
another bent nail in a second hand coffin.
Another hobo song about riding the rails,
another freeloader riding on your coat tails,
another purist claiming that you’re going too far,
and another and another and another and another Lone Star.
Another simile, another metaphor,
another chance meeting with the same three chords.
Another blind-folded stab at the truth,
another river boat gambler with a knife in his boot.
Another self-absorbing media sponge,
another boot-licker clinging to the bottom rung,
another tattoo, another emotional scar,
and another and another and another and another Lone Star.
I’ve got another verse, if you’ve got another minute,
let’s have another round, we haven’t had our limit.
They’ll be another Sunday Morning Comin’ Down hard
and another and another and another and another Lone Star.
© Kevin Higgins