Inside the bluegrass is authentic
As the flight of banjos to the stars,
The low ambrosial strumming
Of the electric-juiced guitars,
The sound of mandolins that weave
A belt of jewels across the room.
But is this the sad metallic ringing
That broke the twilight of the coves,
Or that can call up again the shadows
Of-the winding river groves,
Brought to the Stonewall Jackson from afar?

2.
Outside the Datsuns and Toyotas
Snap in the balmy evening air.
Yet not a single wheel is dented
By the broken axle roads
That snake downhill like rivers
With their gravel in repose.
And the long haired youthful players
Who drove them here today
Left apartments in the city
Where they never learned to pray.

3.
Think then of a lonely hollow
And the hills in evening's fire,
When a sweat-soaked lanky player
Puts his cornfield's rows to rest,
And lets his fancy light the shake-roofed cabin
In the quiet mountain gloom,
As his melody climbs upward
To meet the rising moon.

4.
And remember that at present
All we can ever know
Is that we're at the Hotel Jackson
For a night, a drink, a show.