I’ll be your in through the out door, your up when you’re down. I’ll be your wide-awake dreams in a season of sleep. I’ll be the heat lightning in the storm of your warmth. The bad mamma jamma springing you from the slammer in lowdown Alabama. I’ll be the mockingbird banjo whose sweet song you can never play wrong. Your skyrocket in flight, burning brightly long after afternoon delight. I’ll be your morning egg. Sometimes a little runny, but always sunnyside up.