We were after the same rainbow’s end,
waited round the bend,
my Huckleberry friend —
did you receive the letters I’ve sent?
They contained truths I’ve never told,
kisses that I’ve never sold
and the thought that we’d grow old
together became stories they never wrote.
A vagabond I became —
No shelters when rain
poured, when skies weeped — the drained,
jaded plain Jane
but thanks for the signals you never sent,
my Huckleberry friend.
Because you may still be waiting round the bend
and chasing after the same old rainbow’s end.