Haunted

HAUNTED

I’m just trying to do this song,
trying to do it right so it don’t come out wrong.
It’s been this way right from the beginning,
haunted by Hendrix, driven by Dylan.
No desire to be the host,
but every night I visit these ghosts.

Jimi playing with a backup band
from down under and the promised land.
Levon showed up, Rick Danko on bass,
Richard Manuel all in the same place.
Roy Buchanan, Mike Bloomfield, too.
Johnny Cash singing ‘bout a boy named Sue.
Keith Moon backing up Kurt Cobain,
Stevie Goodman singing ‘bout the famous train.

Harrison, Morrison shooting pool,
Ruthie Brown watching from a bar room stool.
I hear Hank Williams order up a beer,
Elvis is yellin’ at the Colonel, “Man, you ruined my career!”
Nico in a red dress; I’m hittin’ on her,
but I get cut off by Rory Gallagher.
Charlie Parker in a trenchcoat lights a cigarette,
holding hands with Tammy Wynette.

I’m just trying to do this song,
trying to do it right so it don’t come out wrong.
It’s been this way right from the beginning,
haunted by Hendrix, driven by Dylan.
No desire to be the host,
but every night I visit these ghosts.

John Lee Hooker, Stevie Ray Vaughan
jam with Muddy Waters, not one note wrong.
Papa John Creech sharing the stage,
while off in a corner sits John Cage.
I move on from room to room,
spy Clifton Chenier with his zydeco spoon.
Spirits dancing, shining their lights,
an endless party on an endless night.

I’m just trying to do this song,
trying to do it right so it don’t come out wrong.
It’s been this way right from the beginning,
haunted by Hendrix, driven by Dylan.
No desire to be the host,
but every night I visit these ghosts.

I move over to another space,
Big Mama Thornton is rockin’ the place,
Etta James, Billie Holiday wait their turn,
while Janis Joplin makes the room burn.
Gershwin, Monk, Dexter Gordon walk in,
along with Cole Porter and Irving Berlin.
John Lennon is strumming an acoustic guitar.
James Dean keeps looking for the keys to his car.

I’m just trying to do this song,
trying to do it right so it don’t come out wrong.
It’s been this way right from the beginning,
haunted by Hendrix, driven by Dylan.
No desire to be the host,
but every night I visit these ghosts.

Ronny Van Zant, Duane Allman are sliding,
Allen Ginsberg reads a poem about worlds colliding.
Albert King wails out “Hound Dog,”
Jerry Garcia rides in on his hog.
The floor is shaking and the walls are throbbing.
Nobody’s mellow, ‘cept for Tim Hardin.
And Frank Sinatra, so self-assured,
dressed in a tuxedo, still the Chairman of the Board.

I’m just trying to do this song,
trying to do it right so it don’t come out wrong.
It’s been this way right from the beginning,
haunted by Hendrix, driven by Dylan.
No desire to be the host,
but every night I visit these ghosts.

I walk through a portal to 1959,
the year someone said that the music died.
Buddy Holly, Richie Valens sit in easy chairs
playing poker with Big Bopper.
Smoke is fogging up the air.
Byrd swings with Goodman, along with Buddy Rich,
joined by Charles Mingus, still a son of a ****.
Maybelle Carter sings a soulful lullaby,
a crazy new rendition of “Spirit in the Sky.”

I’m just trying to do this song,
trying to do it right but sometimes it’s just wrong.
It’s been this way right f