In the waning and crepuscular light of a Pacific and Northwestern sun, Billy and Phil plowed ahead. They dodged and swirled together, fell apart laughing, came back as one, swirling twirling swirling twirling. Everything is on the one, if you can find it.
Let the damn guitarists and Keith (wherever he is) twiddle and tinkle: we shall stomp, you and I: Phil and Billy, Billy and Phil. We share a tent in the Sacred Band of Thebes, you and I: Phil and Billy, Philly and Bill.
They can play with their lightning, but only we call down the thunder. Also: Garcia’s wearing sweatpants, so he can’t sit with us today.