Joel was in a better place
Cruising his ’65 F100
On a distant stretch of highway
Across the hill country of Texas.

He got the truck at eighteen,
Just a few weeks before heading to Saigon
Where his life would change
As bullets somehow missed, sparing his life.

He got back to Stephenville
Unable to settle back in.
His hair grew long
And the town made fun of his hippie look.

The shit kickers around town
Had no need for a long hair
And Joel didn’t get a break
From the cow pokes about his damaged aura.

But Joel refused to fight anymore
His hair was what it was, long,
So having tired of chicken fried steak
He put that red and white truck on the road.

Along the way with his spirit recovering,
He drove without a care,
The windows down,
No radio to play.

Then there was a jolt,
He had hit something.
Joel got underneath to see
What the damage was.

Somehow, as he got under the bumper,
His hair tangled and the truck began rolling.
He was dragged into a ditch with minor injuries
And more hippie abuse from the cops.

Joel was tired of it all
And drove on to Santa Fe,
Where he traded the truck for a Mustang
And got a haircut.

He settled into a job
That he hated,
Wishing he had never
Been to Vietnam.


Photo Credit: Google Images