You were his messenger in times of hope and fear,
his silent consul before i was old enough to comprehend.
So I left him alone with you every night under the harvest moon;
a solitary lamp beside a solitary glass replete with alcohol for two.
Smoking the peace pipe and writing your words on his walls.
But the dying days are upon you, my mentors,
and though the mansion on the hill has been destroyed;
psychadelic music still fills the prairie wind,
as it blows hopes and dreams clear of your forsaken ranch.
All the good people have gone away,
and taken their good times with them.
And the ragged evening of life brings no glory to a restless soul;
just tears and smiles.
And memories of the same avocation 20 years before.
