Thursday, January 2, 2003
Rocky Mountain breeze,
perfumed with the pitch of pine,
cleansed by the breath of trees,
filtered through the vine. Sing, oh sing, lone troubadour.
We loved your songs, O' balladeer.
From where the mighty eagles soar
the breezes hush to hear. He sang of mountain blues,
his music clear and mild of stance.
of majestic mountain view,
of hopes of life, and fears of chance.
No longer fear good balladeer
your clarion call lives on. John Denver, John Denver,
sing us a song John,
sing us one more. Homer, do you see him there?
He flew in past the moon.
John don't savvy the flute or lyre.
Let him strum you a Western tune. He liked to look down from on high,
to revel in the sight.
Is that a lonely cougar's cry,
a wolf's call in the night?
Or from the Colorado steeps do hear
the echo of a tenor's voice?
calling to us true and clear
the lyrics of the people's choice. Adios, John Denver
adios, good by.
Hasta la vista
the sad breezes sigh.
John Denver, John Denver
good by and good by.