Crazy-eyes The last time I saw Crazy-eyes Doris, She was on the top of the cab of a mac truck Wailing away with a # 4 heavy duty tie down chain Busting out windows trying to get at the driver. How she held on while it sped down the highway in A frantic defensive serpentine course I have no idea. Her topside skill was like a bull rider on a raging beast. An epic showing of such determination, such tenacity. The trucker’s CB echoed with pleadings for help, Frantic prayers to the Big Dispatcher in the sky. And still, Crazy-eyes Doris continued in her fury As the semi continued on its terror ridden path. Those that, in awe, witnessed this exhibition Still tell the tale to this day. And agree that One must not, under any circumstance, skip out On their tab at Ron’s Wayside Truck Stop Diner. Especially since Ron has the good Samaritan policy, Good man that he is, of hiring the recently released (or, wandered over) from the local mental initiation. Booze Talk His speech was a bit slurred And he drooled a little. “Yo”, he said, “There’s more Than one way to skin a cat. But who wants a skinless cat? Body’d be all wet and tacky, Guts probably hangin’ out. And flies, yeah, buncha flies.” Words of wisdom. He’s nuts. Only time he talks is when He gets liquored up or high. He used to be the ‘cool cat’, Jazz man, fast car, hot babes, Stylish threads, pompadour. Used to really wail on that sax. Used to, now, it’s all ‘used to’. Nothin’ dramatic, just old age Slowly slipped up on him And he wasn’t ready for it. So old, alone, neglected, He spends his days and nights Boozed up or high talkin’ Crazy stuff when he does talk. We let him hang around. Yeah, it’s sad. But The really Sad part is that, someday, This might be me.