In honor of some still ringing ears from a wicked (wicked!) show last night at the 930 in DC with Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, thought it was time for this one written loosely about one of my fav frontmans (written back aways, slightly revised here).
Steam like Weiland
Steam from my Lipton’s
hot tea
dances like Scott Weiland
and wails
like a hot electric guitar lick
and fogs up my eyes like cataracts.
Oh the nights
where smoke replaced steam
moonshine instead of tea
and I need not imagine him
close enough to smell
the sweat.
Remember hot heat,
grind and sway
so close,
that plush hot heat,
that same song request
and that hot hot heat.
When tea cools down
the steam leaves drops
cold slippery, falling asleep.
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