Working Man’s Keef

King David of the ’53 Fender Telecaster,
(you even lost your own Absalom)
dancing naked in the moonlight
with a huge hard on,
a rasta headband
and a cocaine-fueled grin smeared across
a face as rutted as ten miles of bad road.

Keef of the hard-muscled seaman’s hands,
swinging your Micawber around
like an electric harpoon,
always looking for new, blood red intros,
new ways to reach back into the gut bucket blues,
hauling them through Muddy Water’s Chicago,
through Merle Haggard’s lonely and broken heart,
following Chuck Berry’s stolen horn lines,
riding five simple open tuned strings,
out into your own spooky garden of soul.

Life is a wild animal, as you say,
and you are going to get mauled.
You can’t control it.
So you might as well fucking enjoy it,
learn from a few greats,
stick to the basics
and try to add something new.

And if you run dry,
try reading the bible for phrasing.
or snorting your own dad’s ashes.
(like Jesus said,
let the dead bury the dead.)

So what if Chuck Berry
punched you in the jaw for picking up his guitar?
Wasn’t that a fair price to pay for stealing fire?

Every honest rhythm guitar player
in the world owes you.
So when the white tunnel light
comes for real, please tell them to wait
until you finish those
last stabbing double stops
on Jumping Jack Flash.

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