If I Could Sing Poem by Anvil Long

If I could sing
You would find me on Beale Street every Friday night
And when 'Stormy Monday' resonated from my lips
All my cousins with soul would close their eyes while gently swaying
And their burdens would ease for just a bit

If I could sing
You would find me at the Blue Door
And when I belted out 'This Land is Your Land'
All my freedom fighter cousins would join right in
While dreaming of the American promise that already passed them by

If I could sing
You would find me at The Troubadour in between twilight hours
And when I sang 'For What It's Worth'
All my free loving hippie cousins would throw up two fingers
Pushing their hope of peace for all the world to embrace

If I could sing
You would find me at Red Rocks on a cool summer night
And when I echoed 'Truckin' out and up beyond the mountain tops
All my dead head cousins would lay down their veggie burritos,
Light up, take another toke, and wish tomorrow would never come

If I could sing
You would find me at The Full Throttle Saloon on a hot August night
And when 'Born to Be Wild' boomed from my lungs
All my biker cousins would present a one finger salute
Smash their brothers in the mouth and howl "ride or die" to the sky

If I could sing
You would find me at the Garden every Saturday night at 9: 00 o-clock
And when my set came to a close with 'Piano Man'
All my Yankee cousins in the mood for melody
Would sing along, while shedding a nostalgic tear

If I could sing
You would find me every Tuesday at Tootsie's Orchard Lounge
And when I let go 'Up Against the Wall' in the key of E Major
All my red neck cousins would slam their Wild Turkey chaser
Yell out M-O-T-H-E-R and give Betty Lou Thelma Liz a passionate kiss

If I could sing
You would find me every day standing on a random street corner
And when I gently crooned 'Loving Her Was Easier', with a sparkle in my eye
All my cousins of every race and creed would know
My heart belongs to the one who grabbed it in 79, and never let it go

Yes, if I could only sing
But alas, I cannot sing, not one bit
And that is why you will find me the third Thursday of every month
At the Lunchbox Café, reciting my petty, pedestrian, poetry