I wrote this a while ago, but have always liked it. If Stephen King wrote a country song, this is how I imagine it would roll...
Crickets and Cowbells
Crickets and cowbells
Sounds of summer
With the summer sun
And the summer smells
By your side’d be
Heaven never-ending
Crickets and cowbells
Not the kind of romance that sells
But it’s the time by your side
I long to be spending
I crawl by your side
In the green summer grass
A glance to the skies
A lone cottony cloud
Shades my eyes
I look back to yours…
Your eyes are what I see
Crickets and cowbells,
The sounds that I hear
The sweet summer air I breathe
As I touch the one I love
Moving the hair from your eyes
Fits a story of young love
Like a hand to a glove
But the bird calling from above
More a carrion crow than a dove
And there’s nothing romantic
About the meal he’d love
This could be heaven, but it’s not
Would have you in my arms
But it’s taken all I’ve got
Just to crawl up to the spot you died
Just to crawl and die there by your side
The tragic ending of a carefree summer ride
Crickets and cowbells
The sounds of summer
With the summer sun
And the summer smells
Now by your side
Heaven never-ending
Crickets and cowbells
Not the kind of romance that sells
But forever by your side
In afterlife, I’ll be spending
I crawled by your side
In the green summer grass
I glanced to the skies
A lone cloud shaded my eyes
I reach out to close yours…
Your eyes, the last I see
Crickets and cowbells
The last sounds I hear
And my last breath,
The sweet summer air
But the bitter taste of blood
Pales to the final touch
To the final touch of
The one I love
Closing your dead eyes
Crickets and cowbells
Go on, none the wise
Only the carrion crow
There to realize
Fits a story of young love
Like a hand to a glove
But the bird calling from above
More a carrion crow than a dove
And there’s nothing romantic
About the meal he’d love
My arm collapses around you
The tragic ending of a carefree summer ride
Now, heaven never-ending
I die there by your side
Fits a story of young love
Like a hand to a glove
But the bird calling from above
More a carrion crow than a dove
And there’s nothing romantic
About the meal he’d love
Fits a story of young love
But it’s a swan-song from above
And the last earthly sounds
I was blessed to hear
Not your sweet breath whispering
But of crickets and cowbells