My Dream (Poem)

(album: San Francisco Dues - 1971)

When I build my home,
That I shall have some day;
It'll be like I want it
Oh and I mean that in every way.

I have yet to see any
That would cope with the style
Of the house that I dream of;
That I'll build after a while.

The roof of it will have peak lines,
And contours that dip;
And form shadowy eaves,
Where the little raindrops can drip.

...That sweet pitter patter,
Of raindrops at play
Is such a beautiful sound
On a quiet gloomy day.

You know, when the wind is high,
And the storm gods race,
And I'll be snugged up
By my fire-place.

Maybe feeding my little dog,
Or playing with my little cat.
But unconsciously yearning,
And wondering where you're at.

But when the meadow is shadowed
By that old sinking sun;
And the roses are bowing
For the dew drops to come;

At my old upright piano,
With pure ivory keys,
I'll just plunk out some vibrations
Of whatever I please.

Sometimes it'll be classics,
Sometimes lullabies;
But mostly rock n' roll
that I'll surely improvise.

And with my favourite guitar,
I'll be just strumming away
And bidding goodbye,
To another beautiful day.

A portrait of my angel,
That I love most of all
I'll have painted from a snapshot
Onto my bedroom wall.

Where the suns warm rays,
And the moon's cold beam
Will cast her reflection,
As I lay there and dream.

You know, I can't deny
but it makes me so sad,
When I think that I've lost
All that I could have had.

It was best for her
And I guess I, I know;
That she measured my love
And then asked me to go.

Then Finally my house,
I will have it complete.
And I'll take up a smoke,
Sitting by the window sill.

And I'll read my many books
That I'll have in my bachelors nest;
While the sun goes drooping
down in the west.

And I'll feel that gold,
Warm light on my face;
And then I'll start tripping
To some far off place.

That through all of my travels,
I must have missed somewhere
A place that I might find
My angel someday.

And I'll leave all that I have
To the gods, up above;
And go spend my life searching
For the angel, that I love.

For all of my dreams,
Would be but a souvenir;
Compared to the one
That I love so dear.