“Lordy, lovin’ somebody doesn’t make them love you,”
a bar singer blurted though
drunken guitaring sounded good
Pressed to the wall, I clutched
a beer like it was your hand
trying to remember to forget what you felt like
Handing me a pen I had a fan
far from demure who wanted me to sign here, here, and here
Sign away the rights to my life
Instead, I pressed on into the crowd
a bit closer to the stage, further from the door
away from them
Towards the mic, and now I’m a singer
not a cowboy, just a city boy with the blues
I rambled through your favorite
Adam F.C. Fletcher 