Lyrics Frank W. ‘Pick up my six-string play a handful of songs, and there is always something in there, I don’t remember putting in there, that somehow belongs. Townes (words & music: Frank Willemsen) A little booklet I have here says that someone died, who played here just a few months ago. After that I've read it in some other magazines, there is no doubt in my mind this is so. Why the hell it gets to me, in the way that it does, I'm not sure I understand. But it's probably got something to do with the fact that I never did see Townes Van Zandt. The booklet mentioned his bad back, the damn thing hurt like hell. And a friend of mine could add to that he had some trouble with the bottle as well. And that he used to sing eyes closed, hunched over his guitar, on a stool because the man could hardly stand. Now that may be so, but then I wouldn't know, I never did see Townes Van Zandt. But I hope they brought Dylan's coffee table on up to the burying ground. I hope Steve Earle stood on it to say fitting words just before they lowered him down. As for me, I was stuck right here where I was born my home turf, my native land. Which lies East of the Atlantic, whereas on the West lies Townes Van Zandt. Now when this booklet had informed me, of a good man passing away. Not a single Townes Van Zandt record, CD or tape did I play. I just sat on my couch for about an hour, with that piece of paper in my hand. Wondering why the hell I don't have the man's records and why I never did see Townes Van Zandt. And hope they brought Dylan's coffee table on up to the burying ground. I hope Steve Earle stood on it to say fitting words just before they lowered him down. As for me, I was stuck right here where I was born my home turf, my native land. Which lies East of the Atlantic, whereas on the West lies Townes Van Zandt. I can stay back East, I can head out West, but it won't matter to Townes Van Zandt. Picture is my own