We know it was hard; so conflicting. All the alcohol, church and backwoods neighbors, created a confusing life. Come to Jesus and daily violence, were family tradition. Wearing beautiful clothes and farm work were contrary concepts. Roadside bus stops gave way to neon signs, in tavern windows.
A scapegoat for gas-lighting master puppeteers, you didn’t stand a chance.
You and Lynyrd Skynyrd drank whiskey and slept in hollow logs. But you weren’t there. Your brain was split. One side said, “Don’t step on the grass!” The other side said, “Pass the paper bag that holds the bottle”, and “Don’t bogart that joint, my friend.”
From a trance, you went to dance and didn’t stop for days. Free Bird! Free Bird! The altar calls were empty. Jesus said, “Join me at closing time.” So you did.
There was no cosmic joy in the hallow, blurred Babylonic Bar.
There were only juke joints.
You scratched an sipped. Claw marks across the Westide, were washed away by Budweiser.
There was only juke joints.