the guitars keep picking

oh, give me a break

she's not so cute

arriving without her flute

but unpacking her harp

after flying in from LA

late the next day

harmonizing half-notes

in the aisle seat

with a man who stayed on his throne

much too long

polishing his slide trombone

while imagining John

sitting on the toilet

combing his hair

in the key of D.

but what could they see?

drinking a cup of green tea,

spending hours trying to tune,

plucking their first strings at high noon

which somebody changed

but somebody else rearranged

for the better.

and there's Blind Faith embroidered on a sweater,

much too loose

for a long-necked goose,

and a jazzy beat and a cold six pack,

imitating Stevie Winwood on the old eight track.

all those people out in radio land

are craving a down-home traveling band,

looking for a way home 

as the clocks keep ticking,

the songs keep a'coming,

the guitars keep picking,

and no one was wasting time

looking for a lost rhyme

that everybody thought must be mine.