I found this letter, what do you make of it?
Friends, how many more times are we going to go through the wearing and tearing of a communication breakdown? I'm dazed and confused! I'm gonna crawl to the houses of the holy, over the hills and far away. Hey, hey what can I do? I feel like Moby Dick, a fool in the rain without a living, loving maid to give me a whole lotta love.
Darlene, your time is gonna come in the evening and in the light. You shook me with your Bron-y-Aur stomp, leaving me trampled under foot. I can't quit you baby. Baby come on home. We're gonna groove to the rain song, immigrant song, the lemon song and the wanton song.
The song remains the same. It's nobody's fault but mine, ozone baby. The black country woman and her black dog are ten years gone with the hots on for nowhere. It's what is and what should never be.
I'm going to California on the south bound Suarez night flight, over the black mountain side on the misty mountain hop to search for the stairway to heaven and our d'yer mak'er. That's the way to the Kashmir of our good times and bad times.
I'm sick again with no quarter left in the battle of evermore. I dream of the ocean and being down by the sea side in my time of dying. Babe I'm gonna leave you in the crunge again when the levee breaks. Boogie with Stu and think of our dancing days out on the tiles.
Since I'm loving you, make it a celebration day and not a heartbreaker for your life. Don't settle for tea for one; have four sticks of hot dog, a custard pie and tangerine at the Royal Orleans on Walter's Walk near the candy store rock.
Rock and roll on the carouselambra with its gallows pole in the center. Don't forget to take your hats off to Roy Harper, the rover and his travelling riverside blues.
And thank you for allowing me to ramble on and bring it on home.
All my love,
Poor Tom - the bonzo's montreux on his achilles last stand
