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You Who are on the road Must have a code That you can live by And so Become yourself Because the past Is just a goodbye Teach Your children well Their father’s hell Did slowly go by And feed Them on your dreams The one they pick’s The one you know by Don’t you ever ask them why If they told you you would cry So just look at them and sigh And know they love you. And you Of tender years, Can't know the fears That your elders grew by And so please help Them with your youth, They seek the truth Before they can die Teach Your parents well Their children's hell Will slowly go by And feed Them on your dreams The one they pick’s The one you'll know by Don't you ever ask them why If they told you, you will cry So just look at them and sigh And know they love you. -Crosby Stills & Nash You run your own life. You choose your journeys: the child sprinting through the woods, whooping like a wild Indian, cannonballing off the cliff into the freezing Thornapple. Stolen 6:00 AM limo rides down Pacific Coast Highway, best friend at your side: California girls, heads poking out of the moonroof, hair whipping behind you, eyes streaming with the cold, watching the sun rise. Later you join the sweating, frenzied wisewomen who, bewitched by the beat, spring up to dance the reel; dizzy, wild ceili swings, feet flying on the grass while Flogging Molly’s relentless tempo pounds under the blazing sun. Swing a little more, little more, o’er the merrie-o, swing a little more, on the devil’s dance floor….. You drink the wine and drink in the air; you take the risks and you take a stand. You make love and you make the best of it. And somehow, audaciously, ripe with life, against all odds and despite the world’s protests and the rank unfairness of it all, you end up curled in the sun, kitty paws stretched out in sleep, and, savoring all your nine lives, come to no bad end after all. Surrounded by ladybugs; a little dust in your fur, a little lazy energy left over to scratch your own back and enjoy the lengthening shadows of the failing daylight’s last wistful touch. This is LadyKitty, and mine is the view from the Cat’s Eye. |
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