| He had a blue wing tattooed on his shoulder
|
| Well, it might have been a blue bird, I don’t know
|
| But he gets stone drunk and talks about Alaska
|
| The salmon boats and 45 below
|
| He said he got that blue wing up in Walla Walla
|
| Where his cellmate there was Little Willy John
|
| And Willy, he was once a great blues singer
|
| And winging Willy wrote him up a song
|
| He said: It’s dark in here, can’t see the sky
|
| But I look at this blue wing, and I close my eyes
|
| And I fly away beyond these walls
|
| Up above the clouds, where the rain don’t fall
|
| On a poor man’s dreams
|
| They paroled Blue Wing in August of 1963
|
| And he moved on, picking apples, to the town of Wenatchee
|
| Then winter finally caught him in a run-down trailer park
|
| On the south side of Seattle, where the days grow gray and dark
|
| And he drank and he dreamt of visions, when the salmon still ran free
|
| And his father’s fathers crossed that wild old Bering Sea
|
| And the land belonged to everyone, and there were old songs yet to sing
|
| Now, it’s narrowed down to a cheap hotel and a tattooed prison wing
|
| He said: It’s dark in here, can’t see the sky
|
| But I look at this blue wing, and I close my eyes
|
| And I fly away beyond these walls
|
| Up above the clouds, where the rain don’t fall
|
| On a poor man’s dreams
|
| Well, he drank his way to LA, and that’s where he died
|
| But no one knew his Christian name, and there was no one there to cry
|
| But I dreamt there was a service, a preacher and a cheap pine box
|
| And half way through the service, Blue wing began to talk
|
| He said: It’s dark in here, can’t see the sky
|
| But I look at this blue wing, and I close my eyes
|
| And then I fly away beyond these walls
|
| Up above the clouds, where the rain don’t fall
|
| On a poor man’s dreams
|
| Yeah, yeah, on a poor man’s dreams
|
| Yeah, yeah, on a poor man’s dreams |