Ramblin' down the middle of backroads all torn up, packed-dirt & rocks, apocalyptic looking. No fear in me though. this is a mean ol' world. try livin' in it by yourself, babe. gonna pack my things & go the way of the rolling stone. Papa, too, was a rolling stone. imbibing coffee to uplift my spirits. desiring to sing of things uplifting, as if angel wings were the means by which i went to and fro in this little ol' town. run away from superstitious lookin' alleycats 'neath the flickering neon signs. cat calls & joy found in singing your heart out, that's what is burning & churning in your veins. No I won't chase no dragons, for i know there's a steep cliff where he sleeps, plus i understand that it is there in the imaginary realm where you lose your mind among the rest of the tragic geniuses counting & recounting illogical number meanings in sequences. it is there that you place the plastic disc in the machine tray & enter the twilight zone within 4 or 5 other squished, rocky carousel twilight zones. Well, you care for the world. The world seems to not care for you. Who's the better storyteller? You or him? My money is on you. The blues is when you got no money & you got no food in the cupboard & you're hungry as a stranded wolf. That's the blues. You go into your adolescence aloof. A woman rocks your world & then the next thing you know, she leaves you for another man. That's the blues.