My ink is like Hank William’s warbl’ing
While crying from his woman’s cheating art,
His solace is embraced by one night flings
That won’t make him forget her cold, cold heart.
At times I feel the loneliness of Cline,
Our Patsy told her story from a plane.
In honky-tonk she knew to walk the line,
In rea’l time I still write with the pain.
And like the Folsom man, a boy named Sue,
I too was just a misfit broken free.
And when the Cash sang “Hurt” before he flew,
It was a time to weep, my pen and me.