| OCR Text |
Show Flying - 211 Wrapped up in black thoughts, futile John Henry walks off across Highway One and down toward the sea. Lying in the cool wet sand, John Henry listens to the rolling and the crashing of the waves. I could walk West now and keep on walking until the warn water of the Pacific was up to ny knees and up to ny thighs and my waist and up to my chest, until it lapped at ny neck, rose over ny nouth and nose, until ny eyes went under the warn green water and it closed over the waving of ny hair in the gentle current. I could resign fron it all. I could walk West on the firm bottom sand until I was dead. Rich and strange John Henry lying on the bottom of this vast ocean, anong the shells and the coral, rocked to and fro forever by the swelling of the waves. And I'm not even in love. I can be free. I can be ny own nan. I can roan the seas for all tine, like the Flying Dutchman. And if he ask you was I running, tell hin I was flying, tell hin I was flying. John Henry lies in the cool sand and thinks of death. If Tex was to cone up behind ne now and tap on the shoulder, I would not be afraid. Howdy, John Henry, he would say. And I'd turn around, natural as can be, and say Howdy, Tex. How you been? |
