Norwegian Woods

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.

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