"Kristofferson"
Kris was goin' for a poet
A songwriter he would be
One of those dreamy people
Some people hate to see
Kris, he took slices of life
And salted it down into rhyme
He picked his own days and his ways
He arranged his own meter and his time
Kris, he went out sowing
Wild oats high and low, up and down
Now he's bringing it into the harvest
And the thresher hums sweet with the sound
Kris, he went out sowing
Wild oats high and low, up and down
Now he's bringing it into the harvest
And the thresher hums sweet with the sound
(Poems don't come from machines
Machines can't set life into rhyme
And you can't manufacture soul
Nor "gauge" and "chop" soulful lines)
-Johnny Cash
