At trucke vid're (eller nedenom og hjem)

Den eftermiddagslæste Dan Turèll-sangtekst "Truckin'", citeret i lektie-blogposten nedenfor, er en meget, meget fri gendigtning af Grateful Dead's "Truckin'", der er en helt anderledes sludrende og melankolsk-mellow, yin-ynagsk sag (der handler om at trucke home, ikke bare "vid're" (i Karma Cowboy's postkort-afsnit og selve Vangede Billeder rejser DT jo faktisk HJEM, men (erindrings-)Vangede er jo bare én station mellem andre, ikke endestationen)) vs. gendigtningens hårde modsætning mellem en verden ad helvede til og den trodsige fordring om at trucke "vid're": 

Truckin' got my chips cashed in
Keep truckin', like the do-dah man
Together, more or less in line, just keep truckin' on
Arrows of neon and flashing marquees out on Main Street
Chicago, New York, Detroit and it's all on the same street
Your typical city involved in a typical daydream
Hang it up and see what tomorrow brings
Dallas, got a soft machine Houston, too close to New Orleans
New York's got the ways and means and just won't let you be
Most of the cats that you meet on the streets speak of true love
Most of the time they're sittin' and cryin' at home
One of these days they know they better get goin'
Out of the door and down on the streets all alone
Truckin', like the do-dah man. Once told me you've got to play your hand
Sometimes your cards ain't worth a dime, if you don't lay'em down
Sometimes the light's all shinin' on me
Other times I can barely see
Lately it occurs to me what a long, strange trip it's been
What in the world ever became of sweet Jane?
She lost her sparkle, you know she isn't the same
Livin' on reds, vitamin C, and cocaine,
All a friend can say is ain't it a shame?
Truckin', up to Buffalo. Been thinkin', you got to mellow slow
Takes time, you pick a place to go, and just keep truckin' on
Sittin' and starin' out of the hotel window
Got a tip they're gonna kick the door in again
I'd like to get some sleep before I travel
But if you got a warrant, I guess you're gonna come in
Busted, down on Bourbon Street, set up, like a bowlin' pin
Knocked down, it get's to wearin' thin. They just won't let you be
You're sick of hangin' around and you'd like to travel
Get tired of travelin' and you want to settle down
I guess they can't revoke your soul for tryin'
Get out of the door and light out and look all around
Sometimes the light's all shinin' on me
Other times I can barely see
Lately it occurs to me what a long, strange trip it's been
Truckin', I'm a goin' home. Whoa whoa baby, back where I belong
Back home, sit down and patch my bones, and get back truckin' on

Written by Jerome J. Garcia, Philip Lesh, Robert C. Hunter, Robert Hall Weir