His hair a thicket, voice a rasping saw
cutting through cant and conscience’s decay —
my scruffy hero channelled youth’s dismay
and changed the world in 1964.
His music called to me: I heard with awe
wild songs — they wheeled and soared above the day
then swooping drove indifference away.
Glad to be young I stood at heaven’s door.
He calls again, and how can I resist
a ragged clown behind a reverie
still chasing wraiths within the day’s fey mist?
It’s darker now: I cannot sense or see
a way ahead but I can dance. Hey! Mist-
-er Tambourine Man, play a song for me.