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
like arrows in dismay failing
to breach the crowd’s plastic layer,
we as one flick our single switch
and 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 finally begins.

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