The Last Rose of Summer

When the last rose of summer pricks my finger,
and the hot sun chills me to the bone,
when I can't hear the song for the singer,
and I can't tell my pillow from a stone,
I will walk alone by the black muddy river,
and sing me a song of my own,
I will walk alone by the black muddy river,
and sing me a song of my own.


                             from "Black Muddy River"
                             Robert Hunter and Jerry Garcia