Going to Prescott III


 Jethro Tull & Ustadza Azra, Courthouse Plaza, Prescott AZ


Chapter 5

Cold Hard Ground


I shoulda
never qwit that job
I’d be eatin’
corn on the cob

I woulda
been workin’ full-time
instead of writin’
this foolish rhyme

I coulda
stopped all my flirtin’
gotten married instead o’
all this hurtin’

Sleeping on the cold hard ground


I shoulda woulda coulda

I shoulda woulda coulda
a whirl

I shoulda woulda coulda
been more
a squirrel

Sleeping on the cold hard ground


I shoulda
got off the train
when it was
the thing to do

I woulda
got on the plane
I’d be ridin’
high with you

I coulda
bought a ticket
if I hadn’t
caught the flu

Sleeping on the cold hard ground


a tiny fire
tiny twigs

So the flames
don’t go higher
or the ranger will
find my diggs

It’s so damn
my brown eyes
are turning blue

Every minute I’m
gettin’ old
I coulda
been home with you

Here comes
a coral snake
thru the grass

I rock n’ roll
n’ shake
as he
bites my lonely ass

Sleeping on the cold hard ground


Twistin’ twistin’
around in the dirt
’til every
bone is hurt

The buttons are
snappin’ off
my hand-me-down
cowboy shirt

My shoes are
full of mud
my mouth is full
of crud

I woulda been
a contender if
I wasn’t
such a dud

Sleeping on the cold hard ground


My back is
racked with pain
my mind is
going insane

All my children
aunts & uncles
praying for rain

I am
all washed up
dead flies floatin’ in
my coffee cup

And the mountain
above me
happens to be
about to erupt

Rain & fire!
Rain & fire!
a new tramp in town
no longer fer hire

    Dead on the cold hard ground
        Dead on the cold hard ground


Be true
to your baby
work smart
and hard

Be true
get serious
be a card

In a useless deck
of fifty-one
or you may end up
one poor son of a gun

Sleeping on the cold hard ground


The applause is deafening here in a popular saloon on Whiskey Row, Prescott, Arizona.

The women especially have gone wild, frantically pulling ribbons out of their hair & coyly playing with the buttons on their blouses. They cross & recross their legs under the tables.

Even the tough busnessmen behind big cowboy belt-buckles seem to want an encore. One swings his beer mug into the air & howls, “Sing another one, Clyde!”


Sleeping-bag culture
UFO tent
can this really be
time worthily spent?

From dusk ’til dawn
no fire, no light
the water near gone
am I really alright?

Sleeping-bag culture
UFO tent
just flying around
without paying the rent

From one old memory
to another
all the women I’ve ever known
and Our Holy Mother

Sleeping-bag culture
UFO tent
sleeping & dreaming
waking-up spent

Cold instant coffee
crackers & spam
nice landing, my son
but you’re still on the lamb


 I keep the tune going with deft handiwork on my snazzy guitar. All of Prescott seems mesmerized by the song, the tune, the new guy in town.

Until, finally, the dream fades, ends, and I find myself, really, alone in a tent in the woods. The only tune around, really, is the cold cold wind in a dark dark night ~ combing pine needles on swaying trees.


yours truly

Cloyd Campfire


About Rawclyde!

I have employed a few pen names throughout the years. Rawclyde with an exclamation mark (!) is the one too sticky to go away...
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