The Southside of Agony
Layla was a song I thought was written for me…forget Clapton’s obsession with Patti Boyd.
EC had it easy-he retreated to his mansion, shot up dope and watched the paint dry; while I roamed dogged streets
on the verge of suicide but
never had the nerve to pull the trigger.
Now Eric has gotten over his “true love,” playing on TV with Robert Cray, BB King and the rest of the blues heroes…
While I sneak into the Red Baron Pub at 1:30 in the morning…put a dollar in the jukebox—and play
“Why Do Fools Fall in Love.”
Layla was a song I thought was written for me…forget Clapton’s obsession with Patti Boyd.
EC had it easy-he retreated to his mansion, shot up dope and watched the paint dry; while I roamed dogged streets
on the verge of suicide but
never had the nerve to pull the trigger.
Now Eric has gotten over his “true love,” playing on TV with Robert Cray, BB King and the rest of the blues heroes…
While I sneak into the Red Baron Pub at 1:30 in the morning…put a dollar in the jukebox—and play
“Why Do Fools Fall in Love.”
Dan Provost
