I could kill...
wad up, Im really bored and those stupid children were making me want to die so I decided to come to the internet cafe to warp into my USofA away from the USofA the internet. Which is what Im doing now. I of course am bored and waiting for my pictures to get loaded onto the internet. My site is at www.Ofoto.com and the email is Will.S.Rose@wheaton.edu with the password grays24. Heres a song I wrote a couple weeks ago. I have about 5 songs for a country album Id like to make. Whatdya think?
Down a long dark road, I had to go, to sit by the river that night.
Smoked my last cigarette at summers end, when I saw Jesus pass by.
Out walking on the river,
that pale moonlight lit the waves he passed by
slow as the current, still as the night, I watched him pass from sight.
for 40 years he walked those tracks, passing hills, fields and flats.
Muddied his feet on old deer paths, sleeping out in barns and shacks.
And from the old fire tower the devil showed him, the kingdoms of this world.
And from the old court house he would not jump down, the dry creekbed remains stone.
And passing through the cornfields he entered town,
The old men shouted him down,
Dying in his chair the newspaper read,
Wanderer Radical, better off dead,
So out walking on the river, he appeared to me.
And at times in passing hes seen.
Crying in the Garden or among the gravestones
Or in moonlit waves at home.
Down a long dark road, I had to go, to sit by the river that night.
Smoked my last cigarette at summers end, when I saw Jesus pass by.
Out walking on the river,
that pale moonlight lit the waves he passed by
slow as the current, still as the night, I watched him pass from sight.
for 40 years he walked those tracks, passing hills, fields and flats.
Muddied his feet on old deer paths, sleeping out in barns and shacks.
And from the old fire tower the devil showed him, the kingdoms of this world.
And from the old court house he would not jump down, the dry creekbed remains stone.
And passing through the cornfields he entered town,
The old men shouted him down,
Dying in his chair the newspaper read,
Wanderer Radical, better off dead,
So out walking on the river, he appeared to me.
And at times in passing hes seen.
Crying in the Garden or among the gravestones
Or in moonlit waves at home.