All the girls had the same expression
as Phil Ochs played in coffee houses,
at times hidden in church basements,
seal of the confessional.
The girls sat mesmerized by the lilting
of his voice, the charm of his style,
the message of his songs piercing hearts with arrows.
Sitting in rows of folding chairs,
chipped paint crusting the carpet,
they coveted every word he pierced with
rhythmic justice and pain.
The troubadour that gave us
a conscience and embraced us
with lyrical change, not measured by time
or grace.

       “Sit by my side, come as close as the air
        Share in a memory of gray
        And wander in my words
        Dream about the pictures that I play
        Of changes.”  Phil Ochs