Wood in the morning, the wooden walls of this wooden cabin
The wooden looks in the wildlife’s eyes, surprised at this city boy.
Third year in a row in the woods, the Norwegian wood
Vestasen forest in a little wooden hide-away hidden away from
All that London nonsense has been left behind again to do what it does
Is what it does best, no reason to fret no reason to regret why I keep
Coming here, year after year to chop giant trees into little fire
Briquettes with all the etiquette of a drunken lumberjack
Driving his blue tractor up weather beaten tracks to stack
The wood to make the fire to warm the bones in the mountain hide-away
Miles away from home.
Wood in the afternoon wood in this room this bunk bed laid
In my head to ward off the woulds and should of dreams
Butter cream and fish in the woods. Jackets and shoes big wellie boots
Raining on windows, rain in the woods. Bugs in the woods, god how I hate the bugs
Always getting under your clothes and having a lug
On your blood with every chance they get all gathered they all cling
Their nasty little suckers under my skin having snifters of my blood
Dry blood my blood in the woods the woods in my blood.
Wood in the evening, settles down to freezing this high up on
Mountain top at the end of the road where the tar gives way to mac
To gravel to mud to wood to wooden cabin, slate chimney on the
Roof smokey joe wood smoking in the snow in winter wood summer now
How’s the light in the night under blue moon reflecting on lake reflecting wood
In the upsidedown hozomeen Kerouac wood in his books. Pages in books
Made from wood. Lost in the woods with wet boots and fishing bag
That has no signs of fish from the fishing hack tangled tack box squirming
With worms in wood.
Shut of the light if I could, maybe I would if it weren’t for all the wood in these woods.