Hemingway
Summer time,
in the High Country.
Somewhere quiet,
where he could think.
And he’s catching trout,
in crystal streams.
Somewhere near,
Pilot and Index Peak.
And…I want to be like Hemingway,
With my friends,
writing stories
that will never end.Francis Macomber,
was a friend of mine.
He lived a short,
but happy life.
Until he went to Africa,
to hunt a lion.
That’s where he got shot,
in the head by his wife.
And…I want to be like Hemingway,
writing stories about,
how to to live.
He traveled with his,
granfather’s gun.
‘Till one day he said,
enough’s enough.
And he threw it into an,
alpine lake, and he said,
I’m not going to make those,
same mistakes.
And…I’m just like Hemingway,
I’m on the run from,
things already said and done.
He settled down in Sun Valley,
In a quiet hotel where,
he could drink.
And he never returned to the,
High Country.
That place where he felt,
wild and free.
And…I don’t want to be Hemingway,
I want to be with my friends,
writing stories,
that will never end.
