I am a crooked man, (lower back); And fish a crooked rod, On a crooked creek, Some purist say "Oh my God".
I may stumble often, even fall quit a bit, Flounder in the water, But I manage to catch a fish in spit of it. My flies may not be perfect, a bit tattered and worn, But the fish do not mind it, And obviously don't scorn. When the day is over, I have dried, bathed and slept. I find my sleep restful, Quiet, contented, rest, The dawn arrives late, as I beat it to the morn. Stand on the porch ready, To brave another thorn. I may be old and broken, beaten by some views. But the morning always finds me, Ready for the news. A man is only as old, as he thinks himself to be. I will always remember, The younger side of me. I fish because I feel I must, That's the way its always been. To not great the morning Is almost like a sin. So though I may be slow, Crippled and broken, To find me up in the morning, is a promise spoken. The fish may not be biting, They may be down deep. But the thought of a great challenge, Wakes me from a restful sleep. I will beat the dawn early, Watch the sun rise in the east. Remember that my problems, are at best the least. I am on the green side of the grass, The sun on my face. This run isn't over, Until I win the race. Jimi, Nov. 18, 2004
