Whiskey Valley

I’m ridin’ to a place where there is little concern.

A place where Brothers have old memories to burn.

Nestled below the mountains of plans of yesterday.

The ride ends there and you almost have to stay.

Scents of stale beer and tobacco dominate the air.

Rows of chrome barstools replace your old easy chair.

Sounds of nature replaced by a glimmering juke box.

A magical place, every female transforms into a fox.

Around the green felt, artists display their skills for all.

A flawless performance of how to strike the right ball.

Others entertain with stories from inside the heart.

The Valley heals old wounds, why should I depart?

A perfect place to make life’s realities become obscure.

I’ll toast to memories of failed love and drink some more.

My ride here, rewarded by visions of a future so bright.

Afraid to leave, I have developed a great fear of the light.

Feelings of fellowship entwined with everyone here.

I need to ride on, my reasoning now becoming unclear.

On my short ride here I easily found the right way.

The road leading out is treacherous; I think I’ll just stay.