The Ballad Of Gypsy-Joe (Part One) Poem by Dave SmithWhite

He came out from the country;
His old guitar in hand.
And he told all and sundry,
His schemes and future plans.
He went into the city;
The city of broken dreams.
Where no-one had no pity;
Where nothing was what it seems.

He came out from the country;
But left his girl behind.
She hailed from the snoot of gentry,
While his roots were unrefined.
He was a ragged Romeo,
And she: sveldt Juliette.
He did not have that holy glow,
Of well-bred riches yet.

He came out from the country;
As a redneck so assigned.
Untethered to the bungee
Rope of hopelessness defined.
He lived by his wit and hustle.
He knew just what to do.
He'd get a gig as muscle,
For the local wrecking crew.

By day he worked as flunky,
To the made man on the street.
By night he rolled the junkies,
And the other low life he'd meet.
He wasn't cruel but practical.
He needed funds real quick.
His menace cool and tactical;
He'd grow his fame a lick.

He came out from the country;
With his boyish looks so tanned.
He was sure he'd not go hungry,
If he formed a bluegrass band.
While some might call him silly,
He despised their taste as bland.
And they'd warm to the corn hillbilly
Music of the damned.

He came out from the country;
But went back with a name.
And sure it was a little tad quirky:
He was Gypsy-Joe Tremain.
He set his sights for the Opry,
And all was going swell.
But then tripped up with an evil popsy,
Who packed him off to hell.

You can't play chess with the devil, Gypsy,
You ain't as good as that.
You can't impress with your revels, Gypsy,
Unless you smell a rat.
So don't you mess with the devil, Gypsy,
Don't buy his loathsome chat.
Lest you're undressed and dishevelled, Gypsy,
You're just gonna fall down flat.

So don't you mess with the devil, Gypsy,
Don't you e're do that!
Don't sell your soul, to rock and roll,
And your words to jive and scat.
Don't you mess with the devil, Gypsy,
You can't be no cool cat.
You'll just get stoned and tipsy, Gypsy,
And never know where you're at!