Mescaline

Leslie Hall was brought up to Goldensbridge as a teenager to be a mother’s helper.  Everyone fell in love with her, including me. The music is just my old Gibson 12 singing, the lyrics are quintessential ’60s imagery. It was totally consistent with her wonderful sense of irony that she could brighten up a room like few others could. I reconnected with Leslie (now Leslie Charles) on Facebook and despite the decades, the core of who she is and why I loved her come through with almost every post. I toyed with mescaline a couple of times and once or twice got off on it, and there was a mellowness to it that permeated my senses like talking to Leslie on an August night.

Mescaline

 

Fellow come up to my door

Asked me what was I silent for

I whispered:  No one’s really sure

I’m just waiting to be wound

Wound like clockwork, plenty to say

Guess sometimes we wind up that way

It used to be

That I would start to speak

By the time I reached my peak

People thought I was trying to preach

But by then they’d be out of reach anyway

So I’d just take my guitar and I’d start to play

 (cho)      And my music tripped like water

Over Victoria Falls

‘Til someone says:  Hey, you can’t play like that

I’m just so afraid

I won’t know where her music’s at

Maybe if I asked her

Guess it couldn’t do me no harm.

For lately Leslie’s let me ramble

On and on and on and on

and on

One night I hear trick or treat

I look outside and under a sheet

A pair of bare and dirty feet

Looking for a place to run

Hardly calloused, soft like down

I wonder how she gets around

It used to be

That I would go somewhere

Thinking I knew my way there

Like I’d built the highway there

But I see someone has been by there

Today

So I just take my guitar and I’d start to play

 (cho)

Over a bridge and under a town

I sure would like to show her around

But I’m hung up about the sound

The meter, the sense and the rhyme

Leslie whistles nonsense words

She makes my strings sing like birds

It used to be

That I would write a song

I’d make it thirty stanzas long

Try to mention love along the way

But I’ve learned it comes out wrong

That way

So I just take my guitar and I bang away

 (cho)