See the little boy with the rosy cheeks and twinklin' eyes

who just kissed the sun good mornin'?

Well, he's a dandy

chocolate candy

good Brandy

And there was a time

when he was young

and his songs were sung

and each rung of the ladder

he clung to with such a great clatter

it sounded like Tarzan

swingin' through the trees

When was that--yesterday?

hell no--tomorrow

for this man has no time for yesterdays

except for now and then

for a precious few moments

to remember things as they were once

Cause

up

down

low

easy

hard

in

out-

there's word's to write-

and songs to sing-

and people waitin'

in towns and cities

like Houston

and St. Louis-

and Detroit-

there's Folsom Prison-

and there's San Quentin prison-

and caged dead men

waitin' to be brought back

to life again by the sound

of his truth-

even if it is only

for a couple of hours-

There's the Hollywood Bowl-

and the London Palladium-

and hell, I'm going to ask him

if we can do a live album

on the moon next-

betcha we go too-

cause history's bein' made

and this man's a part of it-

He's headstrong-

stubborn as a Missouri mule

he's a cobblestone

a microphone

a baritone that sings

lower than a saxophone

hell he even sings

lower than a trombone

If you don't believe he's got

a memory like an elephant

ask his manager

Daniel Boone

a sand dune with

too many brains to count

a silver spoon

a balloon

with all of the colors

of the rainbow

He's a fox

always about one bound

ahead of the hound

a wood cutter

bread and butter

to multitudes of people

He's a stud horse

a race horse

a war horse

a force as strong as the Mississippi River

Ills

pills

bills

booze

blues

good and bad

right and wrong

they came

and now they're gone

Once he said of another

this man can rhyme

the tick of time

the edge of pain

the what of sane

But what of this man

who can rhyme

the tick of time

the edge of pain

the what of sane

and what of the insane

and can reach inside your brain

and conquer it

as if he were ordained

to do so with his sword

of words

Yes, what of this man

and his records

cry the people

who do not understand

that they should speak

not of this man and his records

but instead they should speak

of this man and his music

And do not sing

of the Pawnee or Cherokee

they say to him

for no one sings of Indians

now-a-days

No one sings of Indians you say

ask the spirit of Ira Hayes

if no one sings of Indians

Ask him also of this man

who stands so tall and proud

because of the blood of Indian

flowing through his veins

You know what he is?

he's Arkansas

and black dirt

and hot sun

and wet rain

and cold sweat

and sweat

and cotton

and blistered hands

over blistered hands

and being hungry

and the sound of a train

goin' somewhere

and dreams

bet there's rich folks eatin'

in a fancy dining car

they're probably

drinking coffee

and smokin' big cigars

and more dreams

and more dreams

and more dreams

and God

And what matters?

the sunlight all bright

and yellow and hot

that makes things grow

like big oak trees-

and onions

and watermelons

all red and ripe and juicy

and white cotton-

and children

Clouds-

they're something

he lays under-

and dreams under-

Dogs

they're to hunt with-

and lick his face-

and kick in the butt

now and then-

Crows-

they're to shoot-

and to make up songs about-

and turn loose-

Mountains

they're to climb

even though he can';t always

see the tops of 'em-

and God knows

he's climbed enough of 'em-

but seems like

there is always one

more to go-

Dirt-

that's something he digs in

and plows in and plants in

and feels and remembers

and gives thanks to

as he silently blesses it

for having sustained him-

Water-

that's something fresh and cold

and good to drink and wade in

and swim and fish in

and chuck rocks in

and pee in

when he was a little boy-

Friends

they're something to cuss at-

and argue with-

and dream with-

and love and protect-

for he takes the seed of man-\plants it in the black earth

of his mind-

waters it with his tears-

nourishes it with his love

and shines on it with his laughter

until it becomes part of him-

Hell, he planted me-

People

they're what make his world go round-

in boots and shoes and barefoot-

in tuxedos and overalls

and furs and calico dresses-

both the old and the young-

with stocks and bond dollars-

and butter and egg nickels-

in a hundred above and ten below-

in grand theaters and canvas tents-

they come to see him-

His wife

wow-

she's something to cherish-

and he couldn't hide

they way he feels about her if he tried-

cause when he looks at her

the shine in his eyes'll light up

a Christmas tree

she's his summer-

his fall-

his all-

his spring-

his everything-

his woman-

his lover-

his friend

the beginning and the end-

betcha it's a boy-

And the blind beggar cried out-

please little boy

don't take my money-

but he knocked the tin cup

from his hands

and reaching down gently

picked up the coins

that had fallen to the ground

and held them

in the warm of his hand

and breathed the breath

of life into them-

and the coins became

beautiful little Jewish

butterfly children who kissed him

upon his lips

with their rainbow powered wings

and flew away

over the barbed wire-

for he knew the beggar's name

was Adolph-

and he did not-

give a damn that he cried now-

for he has a way of looking

inside of people-

this little boy-

And what else is he

you ask

of me-

well I'll tell you-

He's a young colt-

a revolt-

a thunderbolt-

he's the North Pole-

the South Pole-

spun gold-

he's a chocolate eclair-

a grizzly bear-

he's gonna be a millionaire-

he's the first winter snowflake-

a real handshake-

a Texas beefsteak-

a heartache-

he's daybreak-

he's a buttermilk pancake

with yellow butter

and gold maple syrup-

he's a tortilla-

a hot pepper

most of the time-

a tamale-

by golly-

he's a dusty bottle of French wine-

a big hunk of Norwegian cheese-

a whole loaf of

hot fresh baked bread-

a sizzling slice of pizza

with anchovies and mushrooms

and peppers-

He's a coconut

with the words

pouring out of him

like fresh milk

when you crack it open-

he's a do-nut all fresh and hot-

he's a kaleidoscope-

a tightrope-

hope-

he's a workshop-

a strawberry lollipop-

a big G chord-

he's unexplored-

a bubblin' brook-

he's a story book-

Yes, but what of when he's old

and his hair is quite white-

will he then still be

as a little boy?

yes-

and will he wear the cloak

of his years as if it were

woven with golden threads-

and velvet reds-

and precious stones-

and oh, yes-

a hank of hair

and a rag and a bone-

for he is, I am sure, a peasant at heart-

always was from the start

always will be-

that is, in the times

when he is not busy

being the king-

and making proclamations

throughout the land

Black Russian caviar

and a roast sucklin' pig

and royal feast

are very well indeed-

But betcha fried streak-

and chocolate pie-

and black eyed peas

are fine for him-

or even a hamburger-

Listen

what are those screams,

cry the baby vultures

as they flap their arms

in terror

that little birds-

that is nothing but

the sweet lady of life

trying to get

her breath back-

for I am

sure he does cuddle her

too hard sometimes-

Oh, my God, screamed the masses-

I felt the ground

tremble and shake-

it's an earthquake-

a tornado-

a hurricane-

a monsoon-

a typhoon-

is it the end of the world?

nope-

It's just a little boy

with rosy cheeks

and twinklin' eyes

who just kissed the sun

good morning-

see him?

well he is my brother

least I wish he was-

cause, Goddamn, what a man-

he is-

Bob Johnston 1970