His head and his hairs were white like wool, and white as snow; and his eyes were as a flame of fire; and his feet like unto fine brass,as if they burned in a furnace; and his voice as the sound of many waters.
American Bandstand. 1962.
His beltbuckle leaves a searing sunspot on the screen
As he prowls sleek and slick like the Arkansas panther
That used to follow him home from chapel.
His voice the rasp of a sharpening razor.
Beehive girls swarm the foot of the stage
Offer him all with their eyes
Tonight he ambles, a big black bear
With the barrel bellychest and saddlebag eyes
Of a man who’s spent his life in the deep darkness beneath.
Folsom Prison Blues.
That voice
Never missing a piston-beat
Of the freight-train rhythm.
His band of young gunfighters
Still watching for a finger twitch
From the Man in Black
As the song pulls into the sidings
He smiles like he’s seen the sun
Closes it softly like a piano lid
Or a coffin.
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