I HATE WAL-MART
I’ve always hated Blockbuster
Starbucks, not quite so much
If I’m not boycotting at least 3 oil companies
I start to feel out of touch
I wouldn’t be seen near Nordstrom’s or any such
And I hate Wal-Mart
I don’t like whips, I don’t like chains
I don’t go choppin up my neighbors’ brains
Don’t really even like shopping
except at the Flea Mart
And I hate Wal-Mart
Now you may wonder, why all this fuss
If you don’t like the plane, take the bus
Well I’ve found religion, and just between us
I hate Wal-Mart
If you didn’t hear the story, here’s how it is
Big company sells below cost
Drive mom and pop out of biz
Pretty soon all over the land
One big square store, identical brand
And that’s why I hate Wal-Mart
Used to be you could drive around
Stop in at three or four towns
Encounter different sights and sounds
Different if not unique
Different accent, different smell
Different things to buy and sell
Now it’s all Taco Bell
I hate Wal-Mart
Roads used to dip and wind
You drive slow, relax your mind
Never knew what you’d find
Round the next bend
Now the freeway goes so straight
It’d go right past the Pearly Gate
I don’t feel human, I feel like freight
I hate Wal-Mart
I like to roam, I like to greet
Individuals on the street
You always know the one you meet is
One of a kind
But more and more they seem to be
Reflections of something on TV
When we’re all alike, nobody’s free
I hate Wal-Mart
I boycott Burger King
I boycott Newt Gingrich
I boycott everything which
I’ve seen advertised
I used to go out to dinner in a diner
Now they say fast food is finer
But it tastes like fell out of an airliner
It’s enough to make you weep
I don’t like board games
I don’t like brand names
They make inflated claims
They’re full of bleep
Everyone I meet is a high-tech dealer
Wants to sell me a digital potato peeler
And I don’t like Garrison Keillor cause
He’s so white
Turn on my radio dial
Like to hear something new once in a while
But it’s the same old crap in a brand new style
It’s audio rape
Still I try to pick and choose
Turn the dial but I always lose
They only play the worst rock and roll
And once in a while one little rhythm and blues
And that’s why God made tape
Used to be we wore beads and bells
Sewed our own clothes in our own way
Now we all wear uniforms that say
Hard Rock Cafe
We’re in a state of sartorial decay
That’s why I hate Wal-Mart
If there’s a pretty spot they’ll pave it over
Put a cloverleaf over a four-leaf clover
Black paint on the White Cliffs of Dover
It never fails
Hope you like this song, thanks a bunch
I could go on, but I gotta go eat lunch
If you didn’t like it, I’ve got a hunch
You work in sales
So grow your own, make your own
Be careful what you own
Develop non-shopping to an art
And whatever you do
Don’t shop at Wal-Mart
Sisters of Swing, backup vocals
Bob Pearce, mandolin
Pat Balcom, drums
new labor-related verses since the recording:
They tell their suppliers to buy overseas
That’s even better than a wage freeze
We’re one big happy family
No unions allowed, this enterprise is free
It’s worker-free, we’re all associates now, see?
I guess that means it’s our Wal-Mart
They say we buy American whenever we can
We buy at home right here in Saipan
Worst of all every other store
Has to follow suit if they wanta sell more
But I don’t want to follow suit, see
Let’s get it over with, just shoot me
God bless Wal-Mart
Brought 6,000 jobs back to South Carolina
For a whole 6 months, then sent ’em back to China
Where they work 12 hours on Easter and Earth Day
But they let em off for their seventh birthday
But the shift don’t seem so long
As long as they’re singing the company song
Which ain’t I hate Wal-Mart
So grow your own, make your own
Grow a union, don’t be alone
And maybe some day we’ll get overtime pay
from Wal-mart
ROY JORDAN AND ED MORGAN
Tuning: DADGAD
Roy Jordan and Ed Morgan were two good old boys from my home town
They were good boys, not so old boys
You really couldn’t say they’d been around
When it came to race, creed, color, gender orientation and endangered species I guess you really couldn’t say they’d made the scene
In fact they were liable to escort you to the edge of town
For wearin the wrong color jeans
One night down at the bar they chanced to meet
A representative from some subcommittee of the U.N.
Who introduced them to a couple of her friends, took em on a trip around the world, and later on brought em back again.
Roy Jordan and Ed Morgan moved into two houses down the road
Just to the left and right of mine but I don’t mind
Long as they keep it up to code
Roy Jordan and Ed Morgan had no sooner gotten out of bed
Than there were three blonde Moslems, two Peruvian PhD’s
And funny ideas gettin into their heads
Roy Jordan and Ed Morgan went down to the corner store
Roy Jordan and Ed Morgan really couldn’t know what was in store
Cause there there was a Micronesian workin on a macroprogram
For a list of all the famous gays in history when suddenly a space ship came on by
And took em to another planet where there was no corner store
And they really had to wonder why
Well there was no corners cause there was no straight streets
and no straight people, well maybe just a few
And I guess you’d have to say they were treated rather well
And there was John & Yoko & Boy George & Madonna & 9″ Nails and Ice T and Wu Tang
And Jews and stuff and even Arabs too
And then Jesus came along and he was a Rubenesque black lesbian
And they really didn’t know what to do
Roy Jordan and Ed Morgan were two good old boys from my home town
They were good boys, gettin to be old boys
I guess you could say they were gettin around
One night down at the bar they chanced to meet
A man who was just this far short of bein’ a mensch
Who thought he knew whereof he spew
So Roy said boy, get a dimension!
So one night down at the bar if you chance to meet a man
Who’s fit to be fenced
Tell him you’re married to a Gay Black Jewish Puerto Rican
And see if he can figure out which part he’s against
Hali Hammer, Ben Lev, Tina Marzigliano, backup vocals
Bob Pearce, mandolin & slide guitar
Bill Fairfield, accordion
John Agey, drums
Tony Dey, percussion
HAMBURGER HILL
Mom and Dad bought and sold four family homes
Raised four boys and then one day
Daddy went
back to school
To become a doctor
of philosophy
I think I might follow in my father’s footsteps
Except I forgot to have those kids
and homes
and jobs
I had a job once, but I had to let them go
I had to downsize my expectations
What do you expect from a downhill nation?
Maybe I’m not supposed to notice, my job just took a plane
Maybe I’m not supposed to know this economy may not
be comin back this way again
But just like Pittsburgh lost its steel
And Detroit lost it to better wheels
I’m up here, workin on Hamburger Hill
Don’t you know I tried, don’t you know they lied
Don’t you ever wonder why it sometimes seems
All your childhood dreams
Get ground up in the round up of the evening news
Here I am again, down at the welfare
Here I am again, searchin for relief
Here I am again, lookin for my health care
Is this a great country or where’s the beef?
I would’ve bought American, if I could’ve bought at all
But as falls General Motors, so the country falls
And now I see it falls on you and me
Guess I’ll go plant zucchini
That’s the only green I’m gonna see
Well I don’t know, but I’ve been told
The streets of the future are lined with information
Every time the program changes, the system crashes down on me
I’d like to reprogram that goddamn corporation
Cause I’m up here workin on Hamburger Hill
Don’t you know I tried…
Bottom’s fallin out of the middle class
Unemployed wanta kick some ass
Whenever the economy fails
They build a dozen new jails
I’m in the jailhouse now
These days I guess you build your own cell
Then you throw away your own key
They say we gotta learn computers
I wonder will that help stop the looters
Who stole the American Dream
Maybe I’m not supposed to notice…
Don’t you know I tried…
Valerie Marston & Ané Watts, backup vocals
Jimmy Malone, keyboards
John Agey, drums
TEENAGE IMMIGRANT WELFARE MOTHERS ON DRUGS
(Lee Goland)
It’s been five years since I’ve had a raise in pay
The way things are going I could get laid off any day
Sure is hard livin with all this pain
I know what I need, I need somebody to blame
Chorus:
Teenage immigrant welfare mothers on drugs
It’s all their fault
Teenage immigrant welfare mothers on drugs
They’ve got some balls
Teenage immigrant welfare mothers on drugs
They’ve got no class
Teenage immigrant welfare mothers on drugs
Let’s send them back
My neighborhood library is about to close
The school my kids go to is becoming a joke
Self-serving liberals blame it on corporate tax breaks
But that’s propaganda – I know who I should hate
Chorus
Who’s to blame for the potholes, and flooding and drought
Who’s to blame for inflation, unemployment and everything I’m
pissed off about
Who’s to blame for the end of the good old days?
Who’s to blame for the fact that I can’t get laid?
Chorus
IF YOU CAN SEE ME
For America I went to Vietnam
Agent Orange has a hold on me still
Freedom movement made me an organizer
While I was studyin on the GI bill
Luck of the leader is to be locked up
25 years, counting eight in the hole
I am not famous, I’m not Mandela
But I am imprisoned in a jail
My name is Geronimo ji Jaga, And my soul is not for sale
Computer programmer was my occupation
I heard about civil rights down in the South
I could not keep my mind on my program
I had to use my heart and my mouth
I lived in Harlem, I was Black Panther
I looked for answers for my people
I am not famous, I’m not Mandela
But I am imprisoned in a jail
My name is Sundiata Acoli
And my soul is not for sale
Cho:
Down at the market, no one talks about it
On the TV you won’t see this tale, but
If you can see me, then they must free me
So won’t you please lift up the veil
They call me terrorist for conspiring
Against the government and companies
Who strip mine pollute and destroy
In Puerto Rico they do as they please
They like to talk about freedom fighters
But not in their own back yard
They took my sister and me, we’re doin 83
And there will be no bail
My name is Ida Luz Rodriguez
And my country’s not for sale.
Driving cab is a good way to pay the rent
For a journalist who tells the truth
They been after me since I been after them
No I did not waste my youth
In Philadelphia, police won’t help ya
Except to beat you to the punch
They beat my brother, there was another
Shot the policeman, but I’m doin the time
My name is Mumia Abu-Jamal
And the system is the crime
Cho
Once proud nations reduced to reservations
Government goons come to terrorize
We had a duty to defend our family
From corruption, guns and lies
The FBI came, they played that old game
Divide and conquer to maintain their power
I am not famous, I’m not Mandela
But I am imprisoned in a jail
My name is Leonard, Leonard Peltier
And this land is not for sale
Cho
Valerie Marston, Ané Watts, & Sisters,
backup vocals
Jimmy Malone, keyboards
John Agey, drums
Valerie Marston, cowbell
Tony Dey, vibraslap
BOHEMIAN GROVE
Where do all the presidents go
At least the ones from the G.O.P.?
Where do they meet to eat in secret
Where can they really feel free
Where was the A-bomb cooked up
Where’s this he-man treasure trove?
My favorite men’s club, Bohemian Grove
Oh we’ve had Rockefeller, Kissinger, Nixon & Ford
Weinberger, Shultz, Reagan & Bush
God forbid the World Court should come
With arrest warrants for all of their respective tushes
Nobody knows the trouble I’ve caused
So pardon me while I pardon myself
They say we prey on the planet, we just sap it all
They say we don’t pay, just go in and grab it all
They say we don’t serve the public interest
Hey, if you wanta have interest, you gotta have capital
Oh we’ve had General Motors, Philip Morris,
Dow and Dow Jones
Profit and Gamble, you lose
No middle class workers
Here, flip some burgers!
While we give all you greens the blues
High level greed’s on a need to know basis
So if you don’t mind I’ll kind of take the fifth
I’d love to tell ya, but freedom isn’t free
And besides there’s always national security
Ané Watts & Sisters, backup vocals
Bob Pearce, mandolin
Pat Balcom, drums
I THINK THERE’S MORE
You know they used to roam all over Kansas
Speakin from the back of a railroad car
Socialists spread out their maps
and explained the way the world is
And how it should be
Talked up the cause
In workingman’s bars
Ah but now nobody knows that
They say you’re crazy to believe it
You better cover up your t-shirts
About the war and ecology
You know they used to trade car repair for haircuts
Using no money, work together, plant the guarden,
paint the town
Cooperating communities, raised everybody up
when the country was down
And Upton Sinclair said it only seems fair
Ah but now nobody knows that
They say you’re crazy to believe it
You better cover up your buttons
About cooperatives, that’s not the way
we do things here
We’ve come a long way baby
We got a long long way to go
Sometimes seems like we been goin backwards
And we’ve got so very little to show
But I’ve seen people talkin in their cars on the phone
Passin people without any homes
Now they’re rioting on the ghetto block
And the farm is on the auction block
I’ve seen friends and neighbors lyin to each other
I’ve seen the best minds of my generation lyin to me
And I think there’s more, I know there’s more
I think there’s more, I know there’s more
Hali Hammer, backup vocals
Bob Pearce, mandolin, pedal steel, guitar
Kathy Barwick, dobro
Bill Fairfield, accordion
John Agey, drums
Donnie Snyder, congas & bongoes
Tony Dey, percussion
FREE AT LAST
You tell me it’s not a thing about race
Except maybe down in Dixie
You tell me things have changed a lot
And I’m just stuck in the sixties
You tell me the poor are movin
Into the middle class
Are you tellin me they’re free at last?
I must have been confused when I walked the inner city
Bombed out buildings must have been a set for a movie
When I saw the all-black schools
I must admit they had me fooled
I could have sworn there was inequality
Can’t walk here, it’s too black
Can’t walk there, way too white
Can’t go uptown, so they say
Not alone, or at night, no way
I just want to walk all over this world
And I will, when we’re all free at last
You merge and downsize companies
You send our jobs across the seas
You cut the safety net and then
You dump your waste on us and when
You’ve got a couple minutes
You build some jails and cut the schools
And then you tell us we’re free at last
Valerie Marston & Ané Watts, backup vocals
Bob Pearce, mandolin & banjo
Jimmy Malone, piano and Hammond B-3 organ
Keeno Burns, drums
IN MY YOUNGER DAYS
Guitar Tuning: DADEAD
In my younger days I lived with black, white, and Japanese
But the school I went to was already black except for me
White folks were movin up
And we moved on out
To the suburbs where we lived a life of ease
I was safe and warm
If not entirely blessed with funk
Oh, it was pretty there
Winding roads and not a care
Looking back it wasn’t fair
We had it all
And when we left we sold the place
To a writer for the Times
First black family in the neighborhood
You can see the trees are thinning
You can see somebody’s winning
But the rest of us are just beginning
To understand it all
Later on I had a teacher
Who helped me find things in my mind
She was subtle
….She kept her job
There was another who shared his views for all to hear
He had no fear
He should’ve
Powers that were shut him down, he taught no more
They would’ve locked him up
If they could’ve
He gave me hope
Showed me I was not alone
Everything worth knowing was left out
Only later did I learn
What they should have been talking about
All I know about democracy
I learned in that school
Mostly….Not.
Pat Balcom, drums |
GUESS WHO’S COMING AFTER DINNER
Frederick the Great and Errol Flynn
Edna St. Vincent and James Baldwin
Tennessee Williams, and Virginia Woolf
Socrates, who battled bureaucracies
Aristotle, who let the philosophical cat out of the bottle
Sophocles, who……….rhymed with Socrates
It’s a secret just between nous
Though everybody knows it’s not easy being bluish
That all of these guys and dolls were
Gay
And by the way,
Lawrence of Arabia was not turned on by labia
Richard the Lion-Hearted was quite a groover
Walt Whitman, Tchaikovsky and J. Edgar Hoover
Virgil and Leonardo
And Plato, don’t ya know
And Michelangelo
Bessie Smith and Cole Porter
All of the above and more in that precise order
and maybe
James I, Edward & Julius II, Richard, William & George III,
and Alexander the Great
(Now on the other hand,)
William Shatner, Lauren Bacall
and Dinah Shore, the queen of them all
Neil and Paul, both named Simon
If you think I’m reduced to simple rhymin
I’m only human, how about that Paul Newman
I’m not talking about who they lay
I’m just sayin they’re
Jewish
Sandy Koufax, Jesus Christ
Through his mom, see, and Noam Chomsky
Groucho, Harpo, even Chico
Larry, Moe, and Curly Joe
And Barry Goldwater, too
All those Broadway guys with their melodies a-swirlin’
Gershwin, Kern, and Lerner and Irving Berlin,
Jerry Lewis, Tony Curtis, George Burns, Sid Caesar, Jack Benny, Alan King,
Those are the comedians I think I’ll skip the cabbies
Go straight to America’s Jewish mothers, Ann Landers
And Dear Abby
Al Joelson, Joel Grey, Johnny Clegg, and Lenny Bruce
They’re really quite a lot
And in case you were wondering
Leno and Letterman, NOT
But the rest of em were,
I know, cause I’ve been tracin
And believe it or not, even Jackie Mason!
These are the few, not Marines, just Jews
I thought I’d bring them back
It’s always good to keep track
You know already there are kids
who don’t believe you
when you tell them Michael Jack
son was black
You know Lazlo Loewenstein as Peter Lorre
Ramon Estevez as Martin Sheen
Betty Jane Persky was Lauren Bacall
Bernard Schwartz was Tony Curtis
And Alexandra Zuck was Sandra Dee
And Lawrence of Arabia was not turned on by labia
Ingrid Noyes, banjo
INDOORS
No more oil in Texas, through with school in Louisiana
No luck with inventions, or in writing songs
So Joe moved on to Washington
To try to move on up in the world
Now he hangs out with millionaires
At the Millionaires Club
Annie’s on the corner, sign says will work for food
I try not to see, she calls out to me
I tell her I’m unemployed
She tells me she’s unimpressed
With my lies, I turn from her eyes
I wish there was a way to make it go away
Chorus:
But me, I’m just a singer, and sometimes a funny man
I sing about the troubles and the joys
And I’ve got one thing my friends ain’t got
And that’s a bed indoors
I knew Robbie in high school
He was better at math than me
Didn’t see him for twenty years
Found him workin on his Ph.D.
He finished it, more or less
Started lookin for work, and livin cheap
Called me last week from a pay phone
On the street where he’s been sleepin
Chorus
Valerie Marston & Ané Watts, backup vocals
Jimmy Malone, keyboards
Keeno Burns, drums
THANK YOU
Guitar Tuning:DADGAD
Sometimes I feel like I’m on my own
Sometimes I feel I’m in a power zone
Then I need a place out of the wind and I call you
Sometimes I feel like I’m a voice in the wilderness
Sometimes I feel like I’m a voice full of cliches
Sometimes I feel like I don’t know if I’m coming or going
And I’m right
Then I need a place out of the wind and I call you
You can go through life without love
I don’t advise it
You can go through life without a laugh
I don’t permit it
Sometimes I know which way the wind is blowin
And I can duck
Why am I so lucky and why is it all bad luck
Everywhere you step, you make a mark
So you best be careful of what you do
Thank you for remembering to dance for no reason
Thank you for remembering to imagine
You can go through life…
Sisters, backup vocals
Pat Balcom, drums
Donnie Snyder, congas & tambourine
ALL MY FRIENDS ARE SEMI-FAMOUS
All my friends are semi-famous
More than Andy, less than Amos
The Guinness book can’t quite claim us
My ex-backup singer’s ex-husband’s brother in law
Invented velcro
He sold the patent
She disowned him
My ex-neighbor’s ex-husband’s great great uncle
Was a supreme court justice who determined
That the tomato is a fruit
Or at least it was at the time
According to U.S. law
And my ex-girl friend sued the power company
for muzzling her freedom of speech
she’s a reporter
She won – they issued an order – she can’t talk about it
But I can…but I don’t know anything about it
All my friends are semi-famous
Some people sometimes sort of acclaim us
less than Spins but more than Martys
people look up when we show up at parties
My mom went to high school with the ex-wife of the ex-Director
of the CIA
She wasn’t ex til thirty years later
And thirty years later Pete Seeger stepped on her foot
It was my mom’s foot
But the CIA made him do it
My friend Chris talked James Watt into using
bamboo stakes at an angle
Instead of chemicals straight in
To keep the dogs off his rhododendrons
And not only that,
Jerry Brown cleaned his truck
All my friends are semi-famous
Even to an ex-ignoramous
The government would like to blame us
But they can’t quite name us
And I………..
I gave a speech when I was 19 and Zbigniew Brzezinski asked
3 questions, and I don’t remember what they were cause
they were really really really dumb, OK?
And also,
I was interviewed on the BBC World Service
And 40 million people heard me, all over India
and two of them still remember it and I’ll never meet them
And one’s probably a professor of popular culture
With a focus on political satire
And the other’s probably really, really really cute
But it’s all right
I’m very very very very semi-famous in my own house
All my friends are semi-famous
More than Andy, less than Amos
The Guinness book can’t quite claim us
Bob Pearce, mandolin & banjo
Kathy Barwick, dobro
Keeno Burns, drums
MY FAVORITE SONGS
Come gather round people wherever you advertise
And admit that the sixties sells Chryslers and fries
And accept it that money don’t talk, it just lies
If your bottom line is worth savin
Then you better start skimmin all the anthems we’ve known
For the stocks, they are exchangin
There’s somethin happenin here
What it is, is an ad for a beer
I guess you’d say
What can make me feel this way
My beer, talkin bout my beer
Songs that sell soap and sell cars and sell lifestyles
Anthems of freedom now corporate sieg heils
Songs that bring back all those sweet memories
Thanks, Mitsubishi, and who needs trees?
When I’m downsized, lost my health care
When I’m feelin sad
I simply remember my favorite songs
And then I don’t feel so
Bad about ads and my culture they’re taking
Bad about products that didn’t need making
Bad that they’re buying the soul of my youth
To sell me their shit, well it’s slightly uncouth
When I’m lonesome, or nostalgic
Feel I’m gonna cry
I simply remember my favorite songs
And then I break down and buy!
I’m goin up the country, where a man can be free
I’m goin up the country, where a man can be free
I’m goin to some place where there’s no god damn Pepsi!
SHE’S MY DARLIN
Guitar tuning: DADGAD<
/p>
She brings the beach ball, I bring the Bar-B-Q
We meet halfway and almost say, I love you
Her smile is golden, I feel like I’m foldin
Entire cities can’t match her wittiness
Can’t catch her prettiness
You get the drift I guess
When she comes in, the sun comes out
When she calls my name, it makes me wanta shout
She calls me sir, I wanta do things for her
It’s so intense
When I start whinin she stares me down
And it all makes sense
She’s my muse, when I get confused
She makes me feel fairly good
She’s my love, I can’t cover it up
It’s all over the neighborhood
She’s my darlin, there is no other
She’s six years old
And I feel the same about her mother
Ané Watts & Sisters, backup vocals
Bob Pearce, slide guitar
Bruce Bolin, surf guitar
Pat Balcom, drums
WORKING HARD
I’ve been working hard……….ly
On my book…….shelf
I live in a house…coat
I’m gonna make a move….ie…date
I bought a new compu…..ter…….disk
I’m in love with my neighbor….hood….
watch…..committee…. chair
I’m in love with a chair
THE TROUBLE WITH POLITICAL JOKES
Most of my songs are either original or stolen
If you didn’t know that, pretty soon you will
And most of my stories are augmented
With a substance known as apocrofill
You don’t wanta use too much of it
You might turn into a marketing executive
Opened for a funk band up in Milwaukee
Couple waitin for the band got a little bit talky
I sang 20 minutes, they said this guy’s funny
I sang another 20, they said this guy’s not funny
Same guy, different minutes
Guess when they realized I was serious
They decided it wasn’t funny
In the pleasant city of Albuquerque
Dude got pleasantly drunk and took me too seriously
Knocked me on my tush
In a redneck bar in Smyrna, Georgia
Guy at the front table said lemme warn ya
Don’t say anything bad about George Bush
That’s the trouble with political jokes
in this country
They get elected
On the Sunset Strip in the Comedy Store
A glass of white wine I was sippin
Waiting in line to play for free
While totally unbeknownst to me
One of the other 33
Was a fellow by the name of David Lippin
They called him, I heard it wrong
I got up to sing my song
Put on my shades and tie, got nervous
Said Lippin’s been detained,
I’m the singin’ CIA agent at your service
Got halfway through my parody
Two bouncers bounded up to me
Surrounded me with looks so stern
Said I was clippin Lippin’s turn
Took me back behind the bar
Examined all my ID cards
The crowd was shoutin, let him play!
We don’t know what he’s tryin to say
But we like his tie and his ripped off songs
And anyway, everyone else is boring!
Standin on a stage in old Belgrade
With my brother translating my jokes
into Serbo-Croatian
Some officials were afraid of my musical tirade
So I got censored on the national TV station
They said do you know any a-political songs?
I said you mean like a hymn to human wrongs?
In a cloistered convent in Alabama
I was singin at a human rights-a-rama
The nuns were in their eighties and fell asleep
When they woke up they came up and said I was deep
Deep slumber, I oughta bottle it
They liked to go to see the governor
and talk about justice
The secretary would say look out, here come the nuns!
Down the road to the missile theme park
And we bullshat our way in
For a NASA peaceful missile back-drop photo op
Troop of boy scouts trooped in and looked confused
I said hey, it’s OK, I’m CIA
They went away…way away
Down in New Orleans where everythings fine
There’s a club in the French Quarter where you order wine
Lots of wine, and the walls roll up to keep it cool
But a heckler drove me to the brink
At half-time I approached the bar
I said that woman’s had enough to drink
Could you show her the door, I asked the bar’s night manager
He said she might get sore and besides, she’s the day manager
I always said there’s no justice in this country
Sometimes people complain a bit
About the fact that I complain a bit
Two guys came backstage one time on the road
Big guys, each had his own area code
Said hey guy, you write a lotta songs complaining
About all the democracies we overthrew
To defend democracy, don’t you?
How would you like it if we overthrew you?
I said you must have mistaken me for Tracy Chapman
But I knew what to do cause it happened before
In the Southwest, by the stage door
When that pleasant drunk I told you about before
Wanted a crack at me
For the cracks I was makin
That he just couldn’t see
So I took off my shades,
looked him straight in the eye
But that’s no way to forestall a fist on the fly
And I knew that
Later
So later on up in South Dakota
I gave those area codes a forlorn glance
And took off my pants
Man and woman sittin there front and center
One was laughin, the other wishin they’d never entered
After intermission sure enough, one empty seat
When they both got home there must have been some heat
Oh well, if you can’t be home
enjoying your own relationship
At least you can be out there breakin up someone else’s
Bob Pearce, slide guitar
Tim Kile, Hammond B-3 organ
Yasutaka Nakajima, guitar
Keeno Burns, drums
STRAIGHT WHITE MIDDLE CLASS MALE
I’m a straight white middle class male
I don’t see how I can fail
So why won’t the governor return my calls
Must be because
I’m not tall
I’m a straight white middle class male
The type that’s bound to prevail
So how come I didn’t get the job?
Must be because I don’t do Windows
95
I’m a straight white middle class male
They say everything’s for sale
So why am I not in the top ten?
Must be because I’ve only got six inch
Nails
I’m a straight white middle class male
I’ll never need no bail
So why are they jackin’ me around
Must be because
They’re done with all the others
Ingrid Noyes, banjo |
