Not Coney Island, Tampa or Long Beach by a long shot,
a place to rest for a few, and repair, a restpith if you will,
discover round-eyed women still exists and cold beer,
that the whirly bird has a nest and does rest all from view,
that the human spirit will survive even in the center of rot.
A woman's hand to hold once again who can understand,
words and places of home once again exchanged in distant land,
at last odors that don't turn ones stomach green from within,
a song, tune heard from back in the world, a forgotten shore,
to bathe in clear water without rice reeds as curtains is grand.
Sip ever so slowly the cold, cold beer savor the taste once more,
embrace it's cold shock as it flows down your throat, cooling all,
remember the nice words to ask a round eyed woman for a date,
and how to dance into the night, and try your hand again at amour,
it ain't Palm Beach that's for sure, it's the best there is, is no more.
If you can only stand to reach her hand to dance again, once more,
try as you may try as you might, you thought the fight was rough,
to get this job done you really have to be tough, and tough enough,
at last the touch, the grasp, she leads you to the floor on silver legs,
hard to dance to any tune when no feeling in silver legs an more.
Whirly Birds just keep coming and going with more and more,
think there was some special show to see, no more for me,
homeward bound to sit and rest with medals on chest no glory,
price too high to answer again highest quest, just home to rest,
gone all the kids of my past along China Beach's shore evermore.
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