A Vagabonds Prayer

It’s hard to tend the garden on the road.
About as tough as makin' love over the phone.
Is home a box of overripe tomatoes, just a closet full of hangers,
four straight walls between you and the air?
It’s easy to believe you when you say that you’re not sure you were made to
live this way:
like a truant with a talent, or a bard who’s lost your balance;
a Peter Pan who flew once, on a dare, through every wall between you and the
air.
And may the road let you down easy;
when you go, go with champagne.
May you know the kindest strangers; may you never drive through rain.
May your sunsets all be sweeter when you’re gone; may your good friends always
greet you with a song.
May your bread always be buttered, and the whiskey flow like water.
And find you kind, and true, and fair.
And may your stars be counting on a Vagabond Prayer.
May your stars be counting on a Vagabond Prayer.
May your stars be counting on a Vagabond Prayer.