sheep rock

Folk rock starts 15minutes late exactly.
And he spends more time
Flicking his shoulder-length hair
Than fumbling through the finger
Picked one four five, we’re in a tent
And there’s a smoke machine,
Hay bails too, and all the young tattoos
Take their photos,
advertise the $30 psalm
and wait.

A gale blows, and in comes heavy rain
as wayward arrows in failing
to breach the crowd’s plastic layer,
we as one swaying matted heap
stir into bestial rhythm,
the grass-pegged plastic tent
persists amidst the sky’s display
And in a short moment of bliss,
Beneath the summer rain’s hiss
The show begins.