Burn Out On Route 66.
After a hundred desert miles in a hot Mustang rag-top
Near Kingman we turned into a quiet deserted rest-stop,
At 100 decibels AC/DCs intro to ‘Thunderstruck’ was roaring
Unhappily rousing an indignant down-and-out from his snoring.
He sat up, bloodshot eyes blinking,
Looking much the worse for drinking.
He stumbled out from his refuge of dark concrete
Then his steps syncopated with the pounding beat,
In his long-lost eyes a spark of recognition had flared
As from the rumbling Mustang ‘Thunderstruck’ blared.
He felt a trembling in his shoes-
And not from the DTs from the booze.
The hands he’d balled into fists uncurled,
His bright eyes looked into another world
As far from earthly care as the farthest star
As he began to sway and play his air guitar.
Heavily hungover and down on his luck
But he was all over ‘Thunderstruck.’
Satriani, Slash, Stevie Ray, Page nor Hendrix
Could never hope to replicate those licks,
Whatever had washed through that sodden mind
A flash, a trace of rare talent had been left behind.
He’d had to have led an ass-kicking band-
Before the elbow raising got out of hand.
As the thunder begun to come to a close
On that animated face puzzlement rose,
After a few pyrotechnic moments in the light
Those bright eyes fade and darken, dead as night.
We left behind a man lost, unsung and unstrung,
A sobering warning to any wannabe Angus Young.