The first thing I remember him saying was,
"I don't write no stories about no damn cats."
But what struck me most was that he could get this out,
cigarette dangling from a lip corner
and a bottle of High Life plugged in the opposite.
"I told you I don't like cats, baby.
They just don't do it for me.
Gimme a dog anyday
with drooling jaws
and his teeth bared in a natural
reflex."
So I ran to the ABC for him
to pick up a bottle of Canadian Club.
And I ran to the Quick Stop for a case of Miller.
And he told me,
"Boy, you wanna be a writer,
get past the baby fuzz and let 'em drop, boy.
Let 'em drop."
The he picked up my guitar and played the
Malaguena
a little at a time.
I've still got the cigarette burns on the headstock.
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