Back again with this. … Hey Taylor!


Imagine the following scenario:
There you are, bored as hell on your tour bus, miles

away from anywhere you’d like to be, and
you clap your hands (or whistle – whatever. It’s

your imagination; use it as you will.)
Anyway, you’d clap your hands and say, “Writer!

get over here and write me something right now.
What the fuck am I paying you for? To sit

there gazing out the window in the lounge? Stop
being lazy and write me a damned sonnet

about the damned gig we played last night in … uh.
Where were we? Tupelo? Write me a poem

about Tupelo, asshole. Entertain me.”
Give me 15 minutes, I’d say, then I’d come…


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