Lange skygger
En dejlig november morgen, rimfrost i græsset og solen stråler, omend lavt, på himlen. Træerne bag mig er ca. 4 m høje men deres skygger når næsten 200 m ud i landskabet. Og min egen skygge når omtrent kun den halve vej derud. At tænke sig…
Tidligere samme morgen havde jeg set ræven i fuld vinterdragt. Den hoppede rundt og legede, vistnok med sig selv, for jeg kunne ikke se andre rævepelse. Den tumlede rundt og løb frem og tilbage i mere end 5 minutter. Hundene opdagede den ikke, for vinden gik sideværts – ræven var så optaget, at den heller ikke så os. Det var en smukt syn… Det store kamera lå selvfølgelig derhjemme
Hvad der gør mig glad:
- er at tænke på heldige Zenia, som skal til Odense og høre ham her med min yndlingssang…
Filed under Teitur, mit, musik | Comments (3)
En go’ historie
Brewton Alabama at The Colonial Inn,
hot day, old orange juice, some vodka on a night stand,
there’s a Chevy Nova with the seat burned out the back,
from a Winston cigarette, that was stumped into the wind
old Bobby Long was like Zorba the Greek,
Side-tracked by the scent of a woman,
Could’ve been an actor on a moviescreen
Stayed in Alabama just a dreamer of dreams
He played football against W.S.E.O.
should’ve seen him running down the field
I grow old, I grow old where the bottoms of my
trousers rolled
it’s a love song, for Bobby Long
A love song, for Bobby Long
he was a handsome man, he had Cherokee cheeckbones
a fair haired boy, where did he go wrong,
he chose a roadless travel, made all the difference,
now he’s chastisezed, critisiezed he don’t make no sense
Brewton called him crazy, he said Bobby Long was nothing but a drunk,
but all the thoughts in his head was way passed anything they duwmb funk
it’s a love song, for Bobby Long
a love song, for Bobby Long
but don’t get me wrong, Bobby Long was no good,
he’d drag you down, if he thought he could
well he would drag you down,
the road I ride will be the day for me
won’t come along
the road I ride is gonna set me free
he’s gonna take me home
he was a friend of my papa’s he used to drink and tell lies
praised Flannery O’Connors, smoked cigarettes and filosophied
so here I am at The Colonial Inn
me and Captain Long and my pretty girl-friend
he charmes her with a poem, then he brakes down and cries
smile a crooked smile, with his broken cheeck-bone side
tells about his life, now he’s 63,
he looks me in the eyes, he says come and go with me
he could walk on water, walk on water
but you know you drown themselves and wine
god and a devil, god and a devil,
god and a devil along inside his mind
it’s a love song, for Bobby Long
a love song, for Bobby Long