I took a walk through Bluesville,
with eyes visiting old corners, now vacant
asking them to tell me their poems
but all their metaphors have been exploited
and sentimentality won't resurrect old stone
There's a house across Ogden on Sawyer
where I received fifty-cent haircuts as a boy
decayed and full of tombstone weeds
nothing seems to work there now
It's strange growing old, cherishing
things not cherished in youth
not knowing the value of what was once had
In Bluesville there grows dandelions
to the world, Bluesville's flower is a weed
but being from Bluesville a person knows
a dandelion is a ghetto rose
