A POEM FOR PRINE

He had this way of singin’
That always seemed to sum it up.

All the mundane, the insane,
& the in-between stuff.

His songs sound like people talkin’
Or like the things we’ve always thought.

Like somehow the whole world
Was just an oyster he could shuck.

When I get to heaven
I think I’ll go & pick him up.

So we can smoke that cigarette
& share the souvenirs we’ve got.