Gonzo Floyd

Gonzo Floyd, a country Pink alum,
sat on his porch, regardless, chewing gum.
He had a Stratocaster, that was speckled with old plaster
where he had once devoured several walls.
He swore that he would never play in halls.
And no one ever questioned that guy’s balls.
Something was amiss, he’d hiss, while eyeing music sheets.
He’d scan the air and, most aware, descend on frightened beats.
He’d root them out, to cheer and shout, and lay the rhythm open.
It’s number one for several weeks, the back room guys were hopin’.
They saw a tour and they were sure that fame would come to stay.
“I’m sorry, dude,” the rep, so rude, threw down, while in their way.
Rehearsal was just ending, as the tired strings were bending,
and the thumping of the bass declared a stop.
“We’ll never get back there, where every breath of air
declares life’s so much better at the hop.”

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I'm a writer living in Massachusetts.