He is always eight miles high and always low,

and never in between those poles of chemical elation/haunted hurt –

that craggy boy, the Byrd that cannot fly but soars

on gravitas of baritone; that odd one out with tambourine,

the mystic misfit and the bashful stud.

Harold Eugene Clark the newest Christy Minstrel,

Missouri balladeer and cuckolder of Papa John.

He is always high and always low,

a seeker after peace, the bard with the Ferrari and guitar,

a handsome dad of handsome boys,

with oceans in the pools of deep-pained eyes

and nervous sober laughter as the bottle beckons and the needle calls.

Thus Harold Eugene Clark heads back to canyons and cocaine

and arms of other blondes.

We had to cut him loose, for even Crosby could not help

that tall and sorrowed man,

that lonesome shadowed soul

found splayed upon the kitchen floor.