A rare case of me turning a dream into a song, with some extra help from the week 1 challenge. An appropriate topic for my start to FAWM '18...
In a hotel room with the ragged bard,
I tried to keep up with his guitar,
Bobby Dylan was playing real nice,
Flat-picked the blues and changed key twice.
It was pretty close on that king-sized bed,
I shifted over to the pullout instead,
Jammin’ songs through the night
Singing ’em loose and strumming ’em tight.
Guitar chords jumbled and then they jangled,
Our voices combed what our fingers untangled,
Window shade lit by fluorescent gloom,
I knew the dawn was coming on soon.
“I write songs,” I said, laying it on thick,
Bobby held up his tortoiseshell pick,
And then he put his wolf grin on,
“I’ll look ’em up on Amazon.”
“Mr. Dylan, will you give a critique?”
I started to sing but my voice was weak.
Bob just winked, and my chance fell through,
And he replied, “Write ’em strong and sing ’em true,”
“And don’t sell corn if you’ve got bread.”
Then I awoke in my sheet-strewn bed,
I couldn’t remember and was so confused,
Till I stepped on the tortoise pick Bob Dylan used.