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For the Boss at Seventy-Five

 

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.