How many more years do I need to sing this song before I get to Spain? I'm not talking about the Ibiza-body-shots-of-Vodka Spain but the rural Spain where live Fascist bombs still act as landmarks on the market road and kids still hold doors open for old women.I'm taking donations to pay for a new camera battery because the two I own are now depleted and give me 1 minute and 43 seconds of use before shutting off automatically before the third verse is finished.
The Gulf Coast fall winds buffet the van with irregular gusts. I have an "urge for going" down the carefree highway with the migratory birds where troubles can be reflected on and not confronted with my impoverished bravery...Hoyt Axton as soundtrack to the deranged lone wolf poetry of my petroglyph wanderings.
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