Townes
Words by Thomas Ivory, Jr. and John Bridgens
Music by John Bridgens
“Letters”
The record begins to turn and the needle is dropped on the first groove. Some pops and crackles sound threw the speakers. A hushed audience slowly comes to play. Then a soft cowboy voice begins a mumbling rant.
“This song first, called ah, called ah, Pancho and Lefty,” the cowboy talks into the microphone.
He quietly begins picking a folk country tune. His voice becomes clear and distinct as he begins to sing.
Townes Van Zandt
Live at the Old Quarter
In Ryan’s basement apartment, it’s hard to say what time of day it is. Small windows in the kitchen and bath face a back alley – leaving the place ever dark. The digital clock reads 15:35. Ryan has finally gotten himself out of sleep on the futon and is now sitting cross-legged in front of the record player. He again reads the inside cover of the record sleeve as he puffs on a morning cigarette.
“More than a hundred souls jammed themselves inside the bare brick walls for the performances recorded herein…” Ryan reads. “If you know Houston in July, then you have an idea how hot and humid it was in that room… To overcome all these distractions and capture the crowd, Townes had only himself, his guitar, and his songs…”
Ryan places the record sleeve on the carpet in front of him with the cover facing up. Chin in hands, Ryan ponders over the black and white photo of Townes.
Shirtless in jeans and a cowboy hat, Townes is photographed in a bare room. He is leaning against a window frame, the sun shining on him at an angle, his back to the urban view of brick walls and bulky community buildings. Townes’ arms are resting down. Thumb in one pocket, a cigarette in the other hand.
He’s a skinny man with not much mussel. His face is solemn. Not youthful or aged. Clean shaven behind wire-framed glasses.
The songs played over the speakers captivate Ryan. He finds himself reflecting on his life. At the early age of twenty, Ryan has hardly left his small town upstate. Not yet gotten further south than Albany, New York.
Townes’ live performance, the charismatic way he jokes and interacts with the audience, the casual calmness of a story teller – his folk songs stories, stories of women, rambling, and the times in-between.
“Rambling man,” Ryan finds himself muttering.
A letter gets slipped under Ryan’s front door; breaking his trans. He is brought back from thought. Having never gotten mail at this address, the letter is a mystery. Ryan picks it up from the floor and turns it over to the front. He first notices the stamp. It’s a picture of an old black woman. Her face is worn with age and deep lines. Ryan looks the stamp over, studies it – the woman’s whole life expressed on her face – before slipping the letter into his back pocket without reading the return addresses. He turns back into the room and gets a rucksack from the closet, packing it with a couple shirts and pants, water and some granola bars.
After not too long, Ryan throws the sack on his back and leaves the apartment. He doesn’t bring much else. Not even his keys. Leaving the record spinning.
Verse 1
G C G
Everybody’s sending letters, saying they’ve got news for me.
C G
I’m ahead of all the shit talking, busking down to New Orleans.
C D Em C
From way upstate New York or down the Appellation Trail,
G D C G
keeping one step ahead of those letters from the U.S. Mail.
V2
So don’t you leave a number coz I won’t be back for long.
I’m headed for the river and I ain’t gonna wait no more.
Grabbing the things that I packed up,
coz I’m leaving on a box-car train.
Keeping one step ahead of those letters from the U.S. Mail.
V3
So brothers don’t you whisper, sisters don’t you bawl and shout.
I’m just trying to make a living, day by day, on my way down South.
But I wound up in the Smokey Mountains,
I was traveling with a moonshine man,
who was one step ahead of those letters from the U.S. Mail.
Bridge
C G
Mr. Postman,
this backwood living, it’s a having its way with me.
C
More fun than I was having
D D7/F#
on the back of some train on my way down to New Orleans.
G G7 C Cm
So pass the bottle back, circles around, and soon it’s coming back to me.
G
Mr. Postman,
Em D Am7 D G
I’m halfway to heaven but to you I’m always lost at sea.
Em D Am7 D G
I’m halfway to heaven but to you I’m always lost at sea.
V4
G C G
Woke up in the morning, empty thoughts settling in my head.
G C G
Yesterday I got a letter but that letter’s gonna go unread.
C D
I’m bound to keep on running
Em C
but running is a deathly bed.
G D C G
Least I’m one step ahead of those letters from the U.S. Mail.
“Moonshine Hillbilly Boy”
The valley is low and the thick pine forest spans for miles over tens of hundreds of foothills. The soft underbrush of loose dirt and fallen pine needles cushion footsteps. Following the river down, a small town rests quietly in a grassy field.
It is here where Billy has plans to make the drop.
With a still not far, a simple carry threw the woods would be easy enough. Or so was the thought.
“It’s a fine art but requires a lot of work,” Billy would say at first. His “unique technique” would be mentioned after a couple more cups of moonshine. And further more, “a genius cannot be exploited!” once the bottle is empty.
Billy only sells his moonshine out of large jugs. The number of jugs produced varies upon the activity of the many stills he has scattered and hidden in Appalachia.
Coincidence enough, Billy’s moonshine is so wildly desired – potent and powerful, smooth with little aftertaste – it has yet to be matched. His limited supply, however, doesn’t meet his demand. Billy is no business man. Nor does he care for business. Moonshine is a hobby. A delectably delightful one. One that can be traded, shared, and appreciated.
Some say he’s lazy to not brew in mass. Some say he’s too stupid. Few know when Billy gets that glimmer in his hazelnut eyes, that little glossy shine from having just the right amount of moonshine, and the room is filled enjoying his stock, his eyes smile as the glasses raise in his honour. What more could he ask for?
A homemade sack of his mother’s is what Billy is using to transport his goods. Five large jugs fill it. A light load at first, but after miles of hills, the strain on his back has grown most uncomfortable.
“At least the Mugwamps are playing tonight,” Billy tells himself, tiredly throwing the sack higher on his shoulders.
The sun is well from overhead, only an occasional shine threw a pine tree at the crevice of a hill lets Billy know he’s still got time. The sky is baby blue. Loretta is to meet him at dusk behind the old horse barn just outside of town. There, she’ll load her truck and give Billy a ride.
“Some college kid drowned tubing up north,” Loretta smiles, helping Billy with his sack. Him, stepping from the woods covered in dirt and sweat. The late day sun is only a wish behind the horizon while its shadows surround all.
Loretta slams the tailgate closed, walking along the bed opposite of Billy. Still smiling, she looks his way, “We’ve got plenty of time,” and gets in the driver’s seat. Billy grins and shakes his head as he opens the other door. For you see, Loretta is the sheriff’s wife. And one of the better clients of this here Mr. Billy. She is a safe sell but is pushy in demanding more.
“One delivery a month is hardly enough,” Loretta is stern once they are out of town. Billy sits there and shrugs his shoulders, leaving it at that.
The bonfire hoe-down is off deep in the woods somewhere. A friendly hillbilly had Billy hop in the back of a truck shortly after Loretta let him out at the base of the mountain road.
“Think bigger,” is the last thing Loretta said before she drove off.
Billy began to think about what she said. I mean really began to think hard about Mrs. Loretta’s words. His vision became fuzzy grey, all sound muted, senses temporarily down. All so Billy could really think. When a truck horn bugled, shocking him out of thought.
“Why you done looking all dumb, boy?” the passenger asked. “Hops in if yous headin’ up the road.”
Finding himself holding onto the roll bar in the back of a pick-up truck going up a bumpy dusty mountain road, Billy has forgotten all thought. In the back with him are four mountain musicians trying to hold onto their instruments just as much as the bouncing truck.
The guitarist, a dusty head of brown hair, has a comfortable spot on the floor. He is able to play his strings without needing to hold on.
“See if you know this one,” he smiles up to Billy. He plays a couple notes of an old country song, the stand-up bassist hits two strings before grabbing back at the truck, and the fiddle and mandolin are remaining unplayed.
“Sounds like something I know,” Billy smiles back.
The truck pulls over again in a cloud of dust. A young man, worn and dirty from long travels, is talking with the passenger side. He laughs and hops in the back with the rest. Greeted with friendly smiles, the traveler nods his head and the truck jumps forward.
Once they’re off, the guitarist begins softly singing to himself.
“Whine, whine…” the traveler quietly sings along. The guitarist looks up excited.
“Headin’ out to the highway,” they both join, “gonna listen to those big trucks whine, whine… / White freight liner won’t you steal away my mind.” The two laugh at each other as the truck parks along a group of trees and some other pick-ups.
“How about you see if you know any of this,” and the guitarist holds up a filled Mason jar of a smoky-clear liquid. Billy knows what it is before it makes his way around circle.
“Woah-weee, that’s some strong stuff, right there,” the traveler says jumping with his rucksack out of the truck.
“This stuff’s pure gold,” the guitarist stands and smiles down at him.
The traveler laughs and says, “I’d like to get me some of that.”
“How’d you like to work for some?” Billy steps into the conversation.
“Depends,” the traveler replies. “Depends on who I’m talking to.”
Billy grins, gives a little chuckle, and takes a large gulp from the jar.
Verse 1
D G
Well, I drink moonshine just to start the day,
A D
to focus bloodshot alcoholic eyes.
D G
Yellow morning through a foggy haze
A D
and I’ll use all it takes to ease my mind.
V2
D G
The sheriff lets me know he has my number
A D
‘cause he knows exactly what I do.
D G
But I’m a man of many disposition.
A D
Keep it real and I’ll give a sip to you.
Chorus
D G
I’m a moonshine hillbilly boy.
A D
Living life on Appellation time.
D D7
Drinking my own brew,
G Em
if you want a nip or two,
A D
hit me up, I’ll fill your cup, and everything will be alright.
V3
They call my moonshine strongest in the nation.
Just one sip is all it takes to blow your mind.
The law man knows I ain’t exaggerating,
coz his old lady drinks it all the time.
V4
So Take a nip and keep your shit together.
The first time you will fight to keep it down.
But tomorrow morn’ you’ll be back for a favour.
We’ll laugh and sing and pass the whisky round.
Ch
D G
I’m a moonshine hillbilly boy.
A D
Living life on Appellation time.
D D7
Drinking my own brew,
G Em
if you want a nip or two,
A D
hit me up, I’ll fill your cup, and everything will be alright.
“I’m Gonna Move”
"Oh God!" Sheriff Jones breaths out in the brisk fall air, the smell of gun smoke still lingers, his hands trembling around his pistol. "Why'd he have to run..."
It is standard procedure, "to shoot toward the running criminal in an attempt to bring him/her to a halt," reads the police handbook. "If wounding the criminal," it continues, "call paramedics and consider the insident to be a part of your cridentials."
Jones has only fired his pistol a handful of times, mostly at the firing-range. Having a loaded gun while on the beat is a rarity. Pressure from the State has influenced a, "crack down on all suspicious activity;" mostly referring to bootlegging. An off the record meeting with the State sherfiff told him, "this moonshine business has gotten out of control," the State said calmly in his office, behind his oak table, sitting in a plush black leather chair, comfortably rested in a grey suit. "You and I both know there's nothing wrong with turning a blind eye to the locals," he leaned back, relaxed, and saying what he needed to say. "But now there's people from outta state coming in, trying to get in the 'gold business' they're calling it. That just brings pressure down on me from the Feds! The fucking Feds!!" Now he leaned up on his desk. Jones has stayed seated in a stiff plastic seat, listening to what he knew he had to listen to. Them both knew it all too well. "If we get the Feds in here, all the small fish will get sniffed out along with the bigger fuckers trying to get rich." The State leaned back stiffly in his seat. "There's families that have been here for years surviving off some homebrew. They've been doing it for generations!" He slaps his desk. Jones couldn't agree more, his brother a bootlegger. "Unfortuntatly," the State tried desperatly to summerize, "some examples are gonna have to be made... To show we got this under control." There was a short silence. The two nod to each other in agreement, knowing this wouldn't be the last time they would have to meet like this.
"Since Billy won't comply," Loretta is talking with Ryan as the two are driving into town in her V-8 Ford, both their eyes facing forward, out the dusty windshiled and out into the hazy evening sun, the pine hills keeping them in shadow. "Since he won't do what we're asking him to do," Loretta takes here eyes off the road long enough to give Ryan a reassuring smile. He questionly smiles back.
"We're gonna have to take over his opperation." Ryan lets out a heavy sigh. "We're not gonna hurt him," Loretta continues while watching the road, "We're just gonna scare him a bit. You know, run him out of town so we can get established.
"I'm not really too sure about all of this..." Ryan speaks up. "I like Billy and don't really want to hurt him..."
"We won't hurt him!" Loretta barks, then collects herself.
"Or take over his moonshine..." Billy sighs. "He's a good guy and I don't really need the money THAT bad."
"Listen you little shit!" Loretta is now yelling, staring Ryan down hard and remains stern when she looks back out the windshield. "You're some punk traveler who doesn't mean a shit to anyone around here. Soon enough you'll be gone," she tries to sweeten her voice, "and you'll beven have some money in your pocket."
"See," Ryan sits up straight. "Billy welcomed me in like family. He's let me crash at his place for months now, not asking me anything in return."
"Well, that's all in the past." Loretta's voice is sweet. She leans over and puts a hand on Ryan's knee.
"Don't get me wrong," Ryan's body tingles and he shakes off her hand. "You're a great woman... and thesepast couple days have been great! But..."
"But what!?" Her hands back on the steering-wheel.
"But... you're asking me a lot. In fact, I'm not even sure what you're asking. What we taled about last night over drinks was... it was just jokes, right?"
Ryan looks over at Loretta. Not noticing until now, she is gripping the steering-wheel hard, twisting it violently. Her breathing is heavy, having her shoulder rise and fall. If her hair wasn't loosly about her face, he is sure he'd see those angery eyes she got while they were fucking, but he can see those flaring nostrils.
Loretta remains silent. And so does Ryan. The surrounding shadows from the hills are getting darker with the setting sun. A few minutes pass and Loretta has calmed. Ryan remains anxious, his knees shaking. They turn off the country road right before they get into town. The dirt road they are on will lead them to an old horse farm, the place where Billy is to meet with some moonshine.
"Five jugs a month!!" Loretta huffs. The barn shows up behind some pine trees near the forest edge. Ryan is quietly looking out the passenger side window as the truck comes to a stop.
"...well it's easier than just waiting around to die..." Billy sings quietly while sitting on a mossy boulder and wittling a small tree branch. Headlights from Loretta's truck shine threw the pine trees as she pulls up behind the barn. Billy wipes his pocketknife with a hankerchif and slips them both in his pocket. He hops off the rock, brushes himself off of woodshavings and moss, and picks up his moonshine sack before steeping out from the forest.
Sheriff Jones, too, has been waiting in the woods. Only he is across the horse field with binoculars. Having recieved a tip months ago from a concerned neighbor of suspicious activity behind the old barn, Jones has been avoiding it becuase he knows his brother Billy has a distillery not far from here. He is sure that particular "suspicious activity" is Billy selling teenage boys moonshine for double the price. "All into account they're underage!" Billy would justify at family dinners.
"A blind eye," is Jones' mantra.
But that boy who drowned last month tubing down river had a high alcohol content. And many parents have expressed their concern.
"If I can just scare the kids and reason with Billy," Jones is gameplanning.
Two headlights pull up the road across the field. The dark shadows from the hill are bringing the night. The car pulls behind the barn. Sheriff Jones leaves his look-out and cross the field.
He soon finds himself standing along the far wall of the barn, creeping toward the close coner as to hear what is being said.
"This is how it's gonna be," Jones hears a familiar woman's voice demand.
The voice is too familiar. His brother Billy's he knows immitately. It's at a higher level when he's been drinking. And that woman's voice he knows just as well, if not better. Her sharp bark. "Not Loretta," he's saying to himself as he carelessly steps on a stick, the snap brings the converstaion to a hault. Sheriff Jones knows he has to reveal himslef to avoid harm to either party. He draws his pistol and steps out from behind the barn.
"What in Lord's fuck!?" he says, noticing his own truck. The truth sinking in. A shadowed figure dashes across the headlights and, to Jones' first impression, is running at him. The figure changes direction and begins to head for the woods. Jones fires his gun. The explosion echos the hills, leaving it still and quiet afterwards.
"You dumb mother fucker!" Loretta is shouting as she struts toward Jones. "You son of a dumb ass piece of shit!!" She is quickly approaching Jones, her open hand held high.
Sheriff Jones returns from a daze, sees the white palm slamming towards him. He steps to the side, avoiding the blow, and retailiates with the butt end of the pistol to the back of Loretta's head. She falls quickly to the ground, and remains there, motionless.
"Oh God!" Jones cries, coming to realization of what is happening.
Billy slowly steps forward, a cold sweat across his face. "Dude..."
"Here, call paramedics," Jones is cammanding, handing Billy his walkie-talkie. "Tell them what you want." Jones walks in front of the truck, taking off his dark green uniform shirt and tosses it needlessly to the grass.
Billy is seechless watching the truck back up then casually pull of down the dirt road. He watches it until the red tail lights go behind the trees. Billy looks down at the heavy piece of plastic in his hand. A small red light on it is blinking. He holds the device up to his mouth and presses in the side button.
"Paramedics needed out past the old horse farm. Repeat, paramedics needed."
There's a static response followed by an offical sounding voice. Billy doesn't listen. He looks at Loretta face down in the mud. Billy tosses the walkie-talkie on her back. It hits hard and bounces off to her side. She doesn't move. Billy turns, finds his moonshine sack still filled of jars, and makes his way back in the woods without looking hisway toward quiet Ryan lieing in the darkness of the forest edge.
Verse 1
E
Trucking my way through Birmingham,
I feel like a rolling stone.
A
Knock it off, another Southern town
E
on my way down to Mexico.
B
Too much time to think about the law,
A E
who was my friend but ain't no more.
V2
E
Looking through the eyes of a stranger,
at a town I've never seen.
A
Flat bed Ford on an open road.
E
Driving all night and I got a heavy load.
B
Ain't gonna spend the night in a cheap hotel
A E
just to feel like Norman Bates and his mother as well.
Chorus E
I gotta keep on trucking.
E
I gotta keep on running.
A E
I gotta keep on moving, moving till the break of dawn.
B
And when the sun comes up,
A E
I'm gonna move, I'm gonna move some more.
V3
I crossed over the Jackson line,
passing a local dive.
Standing on the corner in the morning sun,
she was looking about five foot nine.
So I hauled over to the side of the road.
She said, "If you got the wheels, honey, I got the show."
V4
She said, "I'll start it off, my name's Cathleen."
She was the finest little woman I've ever seen.
She looked over and she smiled at me
and said, "Honey, let's start a killing spree!"
I looked her way and I said, "What the hell!"
Now I'm finding out shit about myself as well.
Ch
Honey, I gotta keep on changing.
I gotta keep on re-arranging.
I gotta keep on moving, mvoing till the break of dawn.
And when the sun comes up,
I'm gonna move, I'm gonna move some more.
V5
It was a country diner on the side of the road.
A guy and a girl and a V-8 Ford.
"Stop me if you've seen this one before."
She said, "I ain't seen nothing," and walked through the door.
Standing in the corner is an old jutebox.
A quarter ain't nothing for some ZZ Top.
V6
We took to the floor and we danced a bit.
We caused a fuss, then when we tried to split.
Local cop that was on the beat
grumbled something about disturbing the peace.
They tried to stop us but they were too slow.
We were pettle to the metal on the open road.
Ch
We gotta keep on trucking.
We gotta keep on running.
We gotta keep on moving, moving till the break of dawn.
And when the sun comes up,
we're gonna move, we're gonna move some more.
"Sweet Cathleen"
It wasn't until well after midnight that old freight train pulled into town. But it's screaming horn let all it could know they were pulling threw. The train never stopped. It hardly slowed. Cathleen took the only opportunity she thought she had (the train slowed but was now gaining speed)and hopped off that train car, going a lot faster than she would have liked.
She hit the ground fast and hard - rolling violently on the loose rocks, scrapping her shoulder and knees, knocking the wind out of her, and twisting her are. She had to lay resting for minutes as the rest of the train passed. Having tossed her gear before she jumped, she soon is hobbling and stumbling back to retriever her things - that last train car far down the line, it's horn echoing in the distance. Cathleen finds her rucksack a little beaten, but her guitar smashed to pieces. With a heavy sigh, she salvages the guitar strings, grunting with her aching body.
Bunckering down for the night in a nearby field, it isn't until the sun is high in the sky when Cathleen gets herself out of her sleeping bag. She was sweating the last few hours before she woke. Her brused body too tired to move.
But now she is re-crossing those railroad tracks, freshly hydrated and urinated, smoking a morning spliff.
Dixie's house is not too far from here - twenty miles down the highway.
A nice grandma gave Cathleen a ride down the road. All the way to the house if she wanted. But Cathleen let the woman park at a nearby shopping mall, where, in her grandmother way, she finishes a story from her youth.
Soon enough Cathleen is walking down the road, rucksack on her back, the sun making her curly black hair hot. Even in a ponytail, her forehead sweat is gleaming with her elmard green eyes. Her fair skin rosie at the cheeks and her volumptious lips chapped. No matter her dirty grey tank top and dirtier blue-jeans are uncomfortably sticking to her skin. She keeps her small shoulder up, her back straight, and keeps those slim legs taking long strides.
She finds herself knocking on the backdoor of Dixie's, finding no answer. The key's under the mat.
It's not until close to six thirty when Dixie returns from work at the bank. Cathleen has showered, cleaned up the kitchen (mostly dirty dishes), and has a summer squash lasagna made from fresh kale, broccoli, peppers, garlic and tomatos - all picked from the garden in the backyard - in the ovan. A bottle of red wine is uncorked and half drunk, while a vinyl record is playing jazz in the living room.
Cathleen's hair is down, playing about her shoulders. Brushed and curled, her hair is full and bouncy. She, too, bounces from the stove to give Dixie a hug. They laugh to each other, take a deep breath of the cooking lasagna, fill glasses with wine, and cheers to old friends.
They were never able to sit down to eat. They had to enjoy the lasagna standing. For once one neighbor stopped by, they added up to twenty by the end of the night.
A plethra of bongos were gathered throughout the house and brought out to the backyard fire pit. Three guitars and a banjo also showed up. And one guy had a dozen harmonicas.
Cathleen played the guitar, leading a couple sone. But many people knew song, too, so she had no pressure to lead.
For nights into days into nights into days, they all hung around the campfire singing, drinking, and smoking. They did so for so many nights, Cathleen had set up a tent just off in the trees. The weeks since her return are filled with tomfoolery. Yet, Dixiy was still able to get to work. Double yet, what responsibilites Cathleen held were very few.
Dixie didn't mind, truly. She likes Cathleen deeply as a long term friend. And although it has been over half a year since either one has seen each other, it was at least that when Dixie herself headed down to Mexico, only to return to Cathleen's open arms.
Broken beer bottles, used needles and condums scattered around a particular tent only needs a suggestion of cleaning up. The fire has yet to go out. Down to coals but never out. Weeks people would be stopping by, camping out, hanging around the backyard. There was always someone around to gather wood and build up the fire.
Weeks, a month or two. Hard to say how long camping was happening in the backyard. Cathleen is up late early one morning. Smoking at her hash pipe, she is the only one at the fire. Up all night and strug out from drugs, Cathleen is wrapped up, curled up in a camping chair with her feet next to the fire. Puffing again on the pipe, a cloud of smoke covers her face.
The nights are getting colder. The nights are staying dark longer.
There's a man in Cathleen's tent who she loves dearly. A cosmic travler himself. Strangers before her return, but now intimate lovers.
Cathleen never intended to stay for so long. She doesn't mind her extention, but her delay has always been on her mind. Playing with the sun is Cathleen living the ever-summer for two years now. She returns noth when the weather is warmer, but now the fall is close upon her. Seeing her breath in the air is a strong believer.
Humming the song for she can never remember all the words, she goes:
"Won't you lend your lungs to me, mine are collapsing... hum hum hum hum hum hum hum..."
Her rucksack is inside the house. A couple minutes and she's packed. Cathleen shed off her blanket as she stand from her chair. The fire is nothing but small coals. Reaching down to grab her half-drunk beer, she pours it on the coals, a lazy hiss and steam barely bother the morning air.
Verse 1
GCG
I gaze out the window at my old hometown.
CD
Friend, foe, and family pass on and move around.
G
But the sun's always high
CG
and the night's always long
G
may my letters find you where ever you roam.
Chours
CGCD
Sweet Cathleen, sweet as a memory can be.
EmC
Your scent always lingers
GC
and that smile oh so clean,
DCG
can sweeten an old veterans dream.
V2
I built me a porch
and I tend to my plants.
I could have done more if I had the chance.
But the fall came too soon
and I'm bound to my home -
where I sit in my attic and write you in poems.
Ch
Sweet Cathleen, more than a memory to me.
Your laughter would flow like the rivers and streams.
That sweeten an old veteran's dreams.
V3
Well, the years they have past
and you must have grown old.
But that's not how I see you
in the depths of my soul.
You're a picture of youth, the world in your hands.
That's how you're protraied in the letters I send.
Ch
Sweet Cathleen, always a mystery to me.
I'll sign you another and I'll bid you goodnight.
Sweet dreams and as always, goodbye.
