For Jackson C. Frank
In 65 you took the boat to England and hit it sweet
wiith your Martin guitar and beautiful voice
You won the hearts of London's folk scene
yet you were too shy, full of pain
Physical and mental scars so long your companions
never let you go. Blues ran the game.
You had compensation money, a Martin guitar
fast cars to thrill your pals, a girl on your arm
But confidence was not given you.
A shaming shyness kept you from fame.
Shadow over you. Blues ran the game.
Mental illness haunted you, kids threw the stones,
you did the drink and the drugs, beautiful voice,
you were the crazy guy in your town
Traveling in your head, England maybe Spain.
Then fire got you once again. Blues ran the game