(an ode to old friends in bumpy places)
It is not the goal of a gypsy soul
To live a life that is still
It’s not the wild, but bland and mild
That breaks the wanderer’s will
There are masses of men who asked when
Will tell of a docile story
Of settling down in a suburban town
With their comforts as their glory
But the things that please these men of ease
Don’t soothe the gypsy spirit
It’s the untamed places and open spaces
That beckon the wanderer near it
It’s Glacier Park, all gone dark
Except the lights from heaven’s floor
It’s el Capitan wall and Yosemite Falls
And the white rapids as they roar
It’s back country for weeks, and Teton peaks
And trekking where there are no trails
It’s climbing free at Joshua Tree
And nights telling campfire tales
It’s the things that scare and the mountain air
And chasing hard after the wild’s call
It’s sailing free in the open sea
It’s giving this one life your all
Because the only fear in the gypsy’s ear
Is the sound of an un-lived day-
Of trading life’s glory and our part in the story
To choose a more comfortable way
There are few things I know as these things go
That can break the wanderer’s will
But one thing for sure he cannot endure
Is to live a life that is still.
