At the end of his thirty-first year
In 1943 when I was three months old
Woody Guthrie wrote thirty-three
New Years 'Rulin's' (thus)
In a letter to his pregnant love
(But how do three months divide
Into eighty years with so much
Left over I ask you 'Railroad Pete')
Woody's conscience had a memory
In it that went all the way back
To the first villages and fields
Of common sense and the gentleness
That is always part of beauty
'#8 Write a song a day'
Even if no one's listening
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