Like Hank Williams in His Cadillac

If only I had died

Young and unaware

Like Hank Williams in his Cadillac

With his thousand stories still untold

And not been spared death

Only to be pining

For her lovely burnt sienna hands

Threading my whitening beard

While the songs keep playing

And the suns rise and sink

On my ever whitening beard

And my songs no one cares to hear

While her hands are busy

Elsewhere

I assume

While I write my epitaph

That you have heard before

Because I have long run out

Of new words in this room that must double

As a fucking ‘50’s Cadillac

My epitaph all over the floor

While I pine for her hands

And her eyes even though

She’s little more than a whore