I am just a rural kid
Not too proud of what I did
Packed my truck and left my family

Tried to leave the things I know
To get some of that city dough
Make a name and live a life of ease

The work takes my smile away,
And I come home tired every day
Makes me think that all I've got is toil.

But times I go out for some brew
And then I catch a glimpse of you
Framed with curls, a picture of quiet joy.



Catskill beauty queen,
Come run away with me
It's cold and lonely in these city lights

But baby I can see
How happy we would be
If you would share these mountain winter nights

I'll be quick about this.

Lee and I just got back from New York late last night. Serious eating happened. Now it's time for me to go on a diet. I wrote most of a song in my head, Saturday night as I drove through the Catskill Mountains. It could go as a polka, but I prefer it as a backwoods, bluegrass-style number. Either way is probably fine.

It's called "Catskill Beaty Queen." To prepare for it, I need to develop a bluegrass holler like Bill Monroe, no small task.

Oh, but that trip to New York. It's difficult to put into words, because there were only images, snapshots of marvel and beauty. I've said this one before, but it sticks with me: Thursday morning, the snow falling in torrents form the sky, she turned to me, framed by a canyon of steel and the swirling snow and I thought to myself come away with me and be queen in the fantastic land of my dreams.