Yours is the opinion I wait for! I started this a few months ago and it went' nowhere. So I left it behind. I found it the other day, moved some letters around, and voila. -- I'm recording my song about nickels and dimes and kites today. I made a paper kite to put on the wall behind me. I felt like 8 years old. It was a beautiful experience. Newspaper and Scotch tape.
Thanks so much. I was blessed to play this last night live at a Seattle gallery where I've played 80 times -- I know; sounds crazy, but it's true! It was a peak experience. Please check out some of my other songs? I've got 80+ originals on my channel. Not bragging -- I actually don't know where they come from.
Multiple thanks! I had the pleasure of singing this one last night to a 77 year old painter, at the art gallery. He told me about living in The Village in New York in the 60s. That was quite a happy conversation. I have more songs waiting to be shared here, including "Kind People", "When String Was A Nickle And A Kite Was A Dime" and "Life Is A Relay Race".
The Last Of The Beats - By Randy Bowles I practice yoga, I meditate, I drink espresso, Stay up late. I wear a beret, With a turtleneck. Drive a ‘53 Buick It’s a rusty wreck. There’s always room In my knapsack, For another read By Mr. Kerouac. I dream of being On the road. I never dream of growing old. I’m the last of the beats, The last you’ll ever meet. When i hear that mad bebop, I shake my bones until I drop. I snap my fingers nod my head. I’ll stop diggin it when I’m dead. I like old blue jeans or corduroys, A pair of sandals is one of my joys. I play bongos for a poetry group. I smoke reefer on my front stoop. I had a beatnik wife, But she went upstairs. She’s waitin for me, I’ll soon be there. I turn on the bebop and read big sur. I don my beret and think of her. When someone snaps their fingers, When the bongos play, It takes me back to my salad days. Give me Charlie Parker, Kerouac. Give me a sweatshirt, Make it black. I keep to myself, Just me and my thoughts. I contemplate all I’ve got. I milk the sweetness I add my bit. I love the life, Life is lit!
Absolutely love this mate, outstandingly good, just that, brilliant!! ✌🏻
Yours is the opinion I wait for! I started this a few months ago and it went' nowhere. So I left it behind. I found it the other day, moved some letters around, and voila. -- I'm recording my song about nickels and dimes and kites today. I made a paper kite to put on the wall behind me. I felt like 8 years old. It was a beautiful experience. Newspaper and Scotch tape.
Thanks, man. Stunning feel. True words. Wonderful sound.
Thanks so much. I was blessed to play this last night live at a Seattle gallery where I've played 80 times -- I know; sounds crazy, but it's true! It was a peak experience. Please check out some of my other songs? I've got 80+ originals on my channel. Not bragging -- I actually don't know where they come from.
Thank you, Randy, for the Wonderful Story. So Picturesque. Peace
Multiple thanks! I had the pleasure of singing this one last night to a 77 year old painter, at the art gallery. He told me about living in The Village in New York in the 60s. That was quite a happy conversation. I have more songs waiting to be shared here, including "Kind People", "When String Was A Nickle And A Kite Was A Dime" and "Life Is A Relay Race".
The Last Of The Beats - By Randy Bowles
I practice yoga,
I meditate,
I drink espresso,
Stay up late.
I wear a beret,
With a turtleneck.
Drive a ‘53 Buick
It’s a rusty wreck.
There’s always room
In my knapsack,
For another read
By Mr. Kerouac.
I dream of being
On the road.
I never dream of growing old.
I’m the last of the beats,
The last you’ll ever meet.
When i hear that mad bebop,
I shake my bones until I drop.
I snap my fingers nod my head.
I’ll stop diggin it when I’m dead.
I like old blue jeans or corduroys,
A pair of sandals is one of my joys.
I play bongos for a poetry group.
I smoke reefer on my front stoop.
I had a beatnik wife,
But she went upstairs.
She’s waitin for me,
I’ll soon be there.
I turn on the bebop and read big sur.
I don my beret and think of her.
When someone snaps their fingers,
When the bongos play,
It takes me back to my salad days.
Give me Charlie Parker, Kerouac.
Give me a sweatshirt,
Make it black.
I keep to myself,
Just me and my thoughts.
I contemplate all I’ve got.
I milk the sweetness I add my bit.
I love the life,
Life is lit!