Catalina's Milky Way Dreams(c) Re- Written 2024 - By The Depressed Poet, Doc Dalton
Shooting Stars and fast moving CarsRumble through the roads of my mindTick-e-ty Tock, the old sounds of the clockSay's it's almost a quarter past nine
The moons surely rising, the stars are a glidingAnd Mr. Sandman is ready to roamHurry off to bed and put your pillow under your headHe might just be visiting you tonight at homeDrifting off to sleep is such a wonderful featAdventures you'll enjoy on your ownMaking new friends on a journey to no endA secrete life that is yours all aloneDon't be afraid of those gobble lee goo'sOr those pirates drifting to sea on their boatsThere's no need to worry there just in your dreamsLike rainbow clouds and cotton candy floatsOh that sky's full of colors of make believe wondersExciting every step of the wayCan't you let me stay for just a little bit longerPlease, don't take my Dreams a wayTo see this through a child's eyesOn the path to where stars brightly beamThrough a different world of twist and twirlsWon't you come to my Milky Way DreamsWe could have so much funUnder an ice cream sun and laugh our time awaySing some M & M songs the whole day longUntil we awake to brand new day
Pluto say's hey kiddo don't get out of bedAs Snakel Puss laughs and says, ah it's OKKKKKKKKPopeye yell's, were gone in a minute after I eat me spinachPoo say's all aboard my Banana Split SleighOh that Sky's full of colors of make believe wondersExciting every step of the wayCan't you let me stay for just a little bit longerWorry not Catalina, we won't take your Dreams a way
To see this through a child's eyesOn the path to where stars brightly beamThrough a different world of twist and twirlsWon't you come to my Milky Way Dreams
Catalina say's, please come join me, on my Milky Way Dreams
There are places in this world that never make the travel brochures, places hidden down forgotten roads where the dust hangs in the air like old memories and the neon signs flicker against the darkness. The kind of places where a man can walk in carrying the weight of the world and leave a little lighter than when he arrived.
I found one of those places years ago.
It sat at the end of a dusty trail just outside a small cattle town where pickup trucks lined the gravel parking lot and horses stood tied to hitching posts nearby. Folks used to joke that Heaven might be somewhere up above, but here, Hell's only one honky-tonk away.
The screen door slammed behind me as I stepped inside. The smell of whiskey, sawdust, and cigarette smoke wrapped around the room like an old blanket. Boots shuffled across the worn hardwood floor while laughter echoed from every corner. The jukebox hummed with the voices of legends, and every song felt like a chapter from somebody's life.
There was Willie Nelson singing about heartache and freedom. Merle Haggard reminding us where we came from. Johnny Cash standing tall as the voice of every working man who ever fought his demons. Waylon Jennings growled through the speakers with that outlaw spirit that made you want to throw caution to the wind. Kris Kristofferson sang poetry disguised as country music, and David Allan Coe told stories rough around the edges but honest enough to leave a mark.
Let's not forgot the true story tellers who are so important to what this story is about such as folks like, Ray Wylie Hubbard, The Kinkster Kinky Friedman and Darrell Scott.
The booze flowed freely that night.
Glasses clinked together while old friends swapped stories about cattle drives, broken fences, hard winters, and good women. The band played one country standard after another while couples filled the dance floor.
Some danced the two-step like they'd been doing it their whole lives. Boots slid across the hardwood with practiced ease while smiles stretched across weathered faces. Others held each other close when the music slowed down. That's when I found my baby in my arms and the world seemed to disappear.
For a few precious minutes there were no bills to pay, no worries waiting at home, no troubles hiding around tomorrow's corner. There was only the music, the dance, and the feeling that life was exactly where it was supposed to be.
Outside, the moon hung over the plains where cowboys still saddled horses before sunrise and spent their days moving cattle across open country. Dust rose beneath hooves along winding trails that stretched farther than the eye could see. It was a hard life, but it was an honest one. The kind of life built on handshakes, hard work, and keeping your word.
Those were the people I admired most.
The ranchers, the cowboys, the dreamers, and the drifters. The men and women who understood that a person's wealth wasn't measured by what sat in their bank account but by the memories they carried in their hearts.
Years have passed since those nights.
Some of the old dance halls have closed their doors. Some of the friends who once sat around those tables have ridden off into the sunset for the last time. The music has changed, and so has the world.
But every now and then, when I hear Willie, Merle, Johnny, Waylon, Kris, or David Allan Coe come drifting through the speakers, I am transported right back to that little honky-tonk.
I can still hear the laughter.
I can still see the dancers.
I can still feel my baby in my arms as we moved slowly across that hardwood floor.
And for just a moment, I remember what it felt like to belong to something bigger than myself.
Maybe Heaven is waiting somewhere beyond the horizon.
But if you ask me, some of the best moments of my life happened in a little country bar where the music never stopped, the whiskey never ran dry, and happiness was only one dance away.
After all, Hell's only one honky-tonk away-but sometimes that's exactly where the best memories are made.
I found one of those places years ago.
It sat at the end of a dusty trail just outside a small cattle town where pickup trucks lined the gravel parking lot and horses stood tied to hitching posts nearby. Folks used to joke that Heaven might be somewhere up above, but here, Hell's only one honky-tonk away.
The screen door slammed behind me as I stepped inside. The smell of whiskey, sawdust, and cigarette smoke wrapped around the room like an old blanket. Boots shuffled across the worn hardwood floor while laughter echoed from every corner. The jukebox hummed with the voices of legends, and every song felt like a chapter from somebody's life.
There was Willie Nelson singing about heartache and freedom. Merle Haggard reminding us where we came from. Johnny Cash standing tall as the voice of every working man who ever fought his demons. Waylon Jennings growled through the speakers with that outlaw spirit that made you want to throw caution to the wind. Kris Kristofferson sang poetry disguised as country music, and David Allan Coe told stories rough around the edges but honest enough to leave a mark.
Let's not forgot the true story tellers who are so important to what this story is about such as folks like, Ray Wylie Hubbard, The Kinkster Kinky Friedman and Darrell Scott.
The booze flowed freely that night.
Glasses clinked together while old friends swapped stories about cattle drives, broken fences, hard winters, and good women. The band played one country standard after another while couples filled the dance floor.
Some danced the two-step like they'd been doing it their whole lives. Boots slid across the hardwood with practiced ease while smiles stretched across weathered faces. Others held each other close when the music slowed down. That's when I found my baby in my arms and the world seemed to disappear.
For a few precious minutes there were no bills to pay, no worries waiting at home, no troubles hiding around tomorrow's corner. There was only the music, the dance, and the feeling that life was exactly where it was supposed to be.
Outside, the moon hung over the plains where cowboys still saddled horses before sunrise and spent their days moving cattle across open country. Dust rose beneath hooves along winding trails that stretched farther than the eye could see. It was a hard life, but it was an honest one. The kind of life built on handshakes, hard work, and keeping your word.
Those were the people I admired most.
The ranchers, the cowboys, the dreamers, and the drifters. The men and women who understood that a person's wealth wasn't measured by what sat in their bank account but by the memories they carried in their hearts.
Years have passed since those nights.
Some of the old dance halls have closed their doors. Some of the friends who once sat around those tables have ridden off into the sunset for the last time. The music has changed, and so has the world.
But every now and then, when I hear Willie, Merle, Johnny, Waylon, Kris, or David Allan Coe come drifting through the speakers, I am transported right back to that little honky-tonk.
I can still hear the laughter.
I can still see the dancers.
I can still feel my baby in my arms as we moved slowly across that hardwood floor.
And for just a moment, I remember what it felt like to belong to something bigger than myself.
Maybe Heaven is waiting somewhere beyond the horizon.
But if you ask me, some of the best moments of my life happened in a little country bar where the music never stopped, the whiskey never ran dry, and happiness was only one dance away.
After all, Hell's only one honky-tonk away-but sometimes that's exactly where the best memories are made.
