In shadows of guitars, the road winds long,
Notes rise like dust, echoing from shore to shore.
The highways hum with a familiar ache,
An anthem for the restless, the bruised dreamers.
Your voice, gravel spun from the Jersey wind,
Cuts through the quiet fields of forgotten towns.
Seventy-five and still the night waits for you,
A road song, old but fresh as the breaking dawn.
You taught us the chorus of hope and hunger,
Where each verse burns like a street-lit prayer,
The working man’s blues wrapped in leather,
A whisper to the lost, a roar to the living.
Today the world hums your familiar tune,
The fire in your words refuses to dim,
And in the beating heart of America’s song,
We raise a glass, a fist, and sing again.