Johnny was born on a Tuesday

with brown eyes

and a smiling mouth.

He grew up quick

down in the South.

But wow,

he could play a guitar.

So people came to see

this shooting star.

They said he was quick,

and laughed at the Devil,

as he played and played,

his guitar and fiddle.

Johnny sang and danced,

played and spun,

until he flickered

"Run, Johnny, run!"

with no more chance.

Perhaps his light

shown to brightly,

simmering like a coal,

or his heart sand too loudly,

strung out and old.

Or maybe the Devil

came for his soul

to take a life

at an even

twenty seven.

But Johnny still dances

far above heaven,

his notes in the wind,

his songs in red.

So Johnny rests

in a worn bed.

But he still lives

as long as his spirit sings

and his music still gives.