Give up the ghost of who you thought you’d be
and leave the pickled peaches for Gene Autry
for the blue-sky melodies don’t reach down here.
“Blue skies smilin’ at me
Nothin’ but blue skies do I see”
Turn your back on the horizon’s fading glare,
and let the shadow of the ridge line take you whole,
leave the pickled peaches for Gene Autry.











Feels a bit like regret in away. Great ink.
Thanks, Nick.