Glory be to God for levee'd Chevys,
For jesters playing for the queen and king,
For the pick-up truck of a lonely teenage buck;
For February-shivering paper-deliveries,
For good ol' boys that whiskey-and-wryly sing
As the music dies in a stroke of rotten luck:
All things rocking, rolling, rhythm-and-bluesing;
Every heart-rending pluck of a guitar-string;
Songs heard on the radio, oldies often played;
Boys and girls, glad-brash, sad, crashed; dancing, boozing --
Whom God hath made.
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