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by
Cary Swinney
Good
Ol' Sunday Mornin';
Seventh of September;
Neanderthal Man; Letter
to Alaska; Mr. Guilt;
They Don't Serve Barbecue in Hell; Joey, Abdul & Me;
Martha, Our Son's Insane; The
Bike Ride;
Johnson Grass Farm; Twelve Januarys
Good Ol' Sunday Mornin'
Good ol' Sunday mornin'
we hopped inside a Ford
Off to our father's, father's church
to get ourselves some more
I guess it's bound to happen
ducks all in a row
Oh they dunk ya down, 'til ya think you've drowned
then they tell ya all ya need to know
(Chorus)
Good ol'
Sunday mornin'
Greasy bacon
eggs are fried
Put the pot roast
in the oven
Slick your hair down
go eat some humble pie
A puzzled child is starin'
from a red crushed velvet pew
Out the window of the Sweet Street Church of Christ
was such a lovely view
I guess it's me who's crazy
for I never understood
How hellfire and damnation
could be so doggone good
(Chorus)
Does your clergy have an ego?
Are there things he's tried to hide?
You know he likes when people listen
oh he's never told a lie
Though the answers he's been given
are like an educated guess
They'll get you next to nothin'
when faith's put to the test
(Chorus)
... Oh - Good ol'
Sunday mornin'
Bees are buzzin'
and so am I
Put the bird food
in the feeder
Honey, let your hair down
Let’s fly
Let’s fly
Lloyd Maines-lap
steel guitar
Doug Smith-piano
Mark Philbrick-Hammond organ
Cary Swinney-vocal, acoustic guitar
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Seventh of September
A
tribute
It's the seventh of September
a visionary time
And I have come back from the future
I've come to see what once was mine
It's a solitary journey
when you're a ghost of rock-n-roll
And though my own hometown now claims me
they will never have my soul
So they gather in West Texas
you know, the place I chose to leave
Where they've encased my black rimmed glasses
I just stare in disbelief
You see for years I was forgotten
but now I am their favorite son
And on my birthday in September
they take the money and they run - see them run
I hear crickets in the evenin'
I wipe the sweat off of my brow
In a garage on thirty-seventh
it's an illusion to me now,
Ain't it funny how things happen?
I mean once you're dead 'n gone
Seems now everybody knew me - and loved me
young and old now sing my songs
And Santiago smells the money
I should've seen that all along
Her new alliances with commerce - her lawsuits
my songs... my songs
I was once a young musician
a song writer, so they say
And though an aeroplane did take me
it seems I never fade away - not fade away
Lloyd Maines-pedal
steel guitar
Cary Swinney-vocal, acoustic guitar
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Neanderthal Man
Oh once upon a time there was
a clumsy little kind of Neanderthal Man
With his stick in his hand
his, stick, in his hand
His woman was a hairy-legged stocky
lookin' kind of firewood gatherin' thing
And the firewood she'd bring
would make him feel, like a king
Many moons did come up and many suns
did go down when a wheel rolled by
Much to their surprise
forever changed our lives
And then the markets arrived and they
learned to survive by trading beads
Sat around and drank twig tea
from a tea twig tree
With their beads all exchanged they would
count up their things and head back to their caves
And compare what they'd made
with the Jones'
Soon a woman would learn how her body could
earn a few beads to be worn
But this profession was scorned
when the righteous were born
By three thousand and three deaf and
blind could now see that the righteous were dumb
They'd sunk to that proverbial rung
no longer played folks like a drum
Many people had died yet politicians still lied and
gave speeches downtown
Screamed and stomped at the ground
but no one came -
You see, intelligence thrived and the
righteous did die or went away, and stayed gone
Leaving we creatures alone
to grow this garden
Oh once upon a time there was a
clumsy little kind of Neanderthal, Man
Richard Bowden-fiddle
Brian McRae-bass, percussion
Gary Thomason-acoustic lead guitar
Curtis Peoples-acoustic lead guitar
Cary Swinney-vocal, acoustic guitar, whistle
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Letter to Alaska (The Ballad of Roy Pigg)
Thanks,
Terry
Greetings to you
from the lower forty-eight
Where the building of prisons
is what make us so great
Where a junior high child
might blow you away
If ya happen to smile
at the child the wrong way
And ain't it nice that we're free
where ya have to be brave
To keep a nine inch TV
from making you its slave
Well I went down to Quitaque
but you weren't around
I stopped by your Cafe
they told me you could be found
Restin' now with your mother
some six foot below
All dressed up for supper
but nowhere to go
I didn't know - I, didn't know
I didn't know - I, didn't know
Cary Swinney-vocal,
piano
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Mr.
Guilt
Mr. Guilt
is this lunatic in robes
Who pounds on The Book
for a dime
He calls you friend
as he's pandering your soul
And expects you to close your mind
Are you blind?
Mr. Guilt
comes in many shapes and forms
Concealed 'neath his veil of fear
He reminds you immortality's on the line
And the price you could pay
is severe - he's a racketeer
I wish that I
was a flying bird
high above the ground
A free-flight feathered voyager
in the land.
Mr. Guilt had not yet found
You -
may feel that you are free
But free my friend
you're not
Mr. Guilt
has knelt down to pray
And tangled us up in knots
with indoctrination,
sweet indoctrination
Cary Swinney-vocal,
acoustic guitar
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They
Don't Serve Barbecue In Hell
It
could happen
On the eighth day
God created a Texas bar and grill
He invited all his closest Gods
for the very first meal
He said, "Let's not tell ol' Adam & Eve,
you know those two will squeal,"
They kept it, under their halos,
and then agreed, to the deal
Joseph learned the two-step
oh he danced it oh-so-well
He over-dosed on country music
and fell
And the sweet sweet sound of steel guitars
and fiddles filled the air
Coyote dogs and old bull frogs just stopped -
and stared
(Chorus)
While the unborn child named Jesus
danced with Mary
Long before ol' long hair
parted the sea
Smoke from Barbecue
soon swept the prairie
But there was no one there to smell -
the smell
And they don’t serve barbecue -
In hell
Miles and time will rob you blind
Yes, along came an Indian
God got scared - he wasn't prepared
so he packed it in
But he left behind a smoke-stack shrine
and a dog on a lid-closed-grill
He just left it - smokin',
and it's there - still
(Chorus)
Richard Bowden-fiddle,
mandolin
Lloyd Maines-pedal steel guitar
Brian McRae-bass
Cary Swinney-vocal, acoustic guitar
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Joey, Abdul and Me
Joey reads the Torah
on an old stone road downtown
In the middle of Jerusalem
where the black robes drag the ground
Where on Sunday he's a soldier
he's a shooter for the man
He stands guard down on the border
and protects his promised land
But there are no wise men present
there are none left to be found
Just a couple of back seat drivers
tryin to make their way downtown
Ol' Abdul is a man from Lebanon
who likes to hang out on the streets
He says hooray for gay old Palestine
and he's fast upon his feet
Where with afternoon comes boredom
so he gathers up some stones
And he creeps down to the border
and sneaks a peek around that zone
And he watches for the cameras
and when they begin to roll
He pulls his scarf up to his eyeballs
rares his arm back and starts to throw
Nowadays no one is distracted
by the presence of the sun
The simple beauty, of the universe
I guess there's fighting to be done
To me - it feels a little foreign
to me - it's hard to comprehend
That some five thousand odd years later
that same war has yet to end
It's like waitin' for the buzzards
‘cause ya know they're gonna come
It's like lookin' past some Nazi railroad track
to the same Jerusalem
So I sit beside this bar ditch
and watch you Lubbockites roll by
With my pencil and my paper
and my sandwich by my side
And I write about dissension
in a far and foreign land
Another pampered North American
who truly does not understand
But I admire my rusty Chevy
on a starry afternoon
She's a three-on-the-tree, I do believe
a nineteen-seventy, Malibu
she's a beauty
Richard Bowden-mandolin,
fiddle
Brian McRae-bass, percussion
Steve Cooper-pennywhistle
Gary Thomason-electric guitar
Cary Swinney-vocal, acoustic guitar
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Martha,
Our Son's Insane
Martha our son's insane
I think the poor boy's lost his brain
He musta thrown it out the window
with the dust from the rug
'Cause he don't listen to one damn thing
he never hears a word I say
I try to teach him right from wrong
and the boy just shrugs
(Chorus)
Oh, Martha, our son he's insane
I think the peer pressure
done smoked away his brain
Lord, what are we gonna do
when the time comes for me and you
to throw our twenty-four-year-old child
out in the rain... Martha, what are we gonna do?
You know the tempers
have flared a round
It's time
to turn the rock music down
Our beady-eyed flower-child boy
has got to change
He appears to stand as a man
his childish mind is forever at hand
Why must I feel defeated and ashamed?
(Chorus)
You know the time is gonna come
which came sooner - for some
Payment for this lifestyle
is overdue
And Martha, you'll begin to cry
you'll feel old, and wonder why
You can't treat men as children
for the sake of youth
(Chorus)
Brian McRae-bass,
drums
Gary Thomason-baritone rhythm guitar, electric lead guitar
Mark Philbrick-Hammond organ
Cary Swinney-vocal, acoustic guitar
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The
Bike Ride
I took my bike out for a ride
on the lower southeast side
Where a young man should not ride
or come 'a goin'
The bluebonnets were in bloom
on a Texas afternoon
A mockingbird sang out a tune
for those who'll listen
People sleepin' in the streets of downtown Dallas
amidst the sound of Sunday's church bell afternoon
And I wonder sometimes, when they might come to
their minds
and a revolution shall ensue
I'm bettin' that a bloody revolution shall ensue
The propaganda just appears
in some TV ad for beer
But it does not show the fear
that we are hiding
Another touchdown from a run
another helmet comes undone
To show the world our toothless gums
and two gold earrings
Was nothing truly learned from Martin Luther King?
I guess all that civil rights stuff was a dream
Now our new prisons grow more full with angry citizens
and the rest of us are numbers in the game
I guess the rest of us are numbers in the game
It's so hard to define,
what is yours and what is mine
for with these nationalistic minds
we're surely crippled
We're spoon-fed through our TVs,
where our so-called enemies
are pointed out to you and me
like answered riddles
Is it no mystery to anyone that they're lying?
Even the old men down at the pool hall say that's true
And I wonder sometimes, when they might come to
their minds
and a revolution shall ensue
I'm bettin' that a bloody revolution shall I ensue
Brian McRae-bass,
lead guitar
Doug Smith-piano
Cary Swinney-vocal, classical guitar intro, acoustic guitar
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Johnson Grass Farm
To
that spirit of freedom, innocence
and independence in all of us
I'm gonna live on marijuana
and I ain't gonna work at all
I'm gonna find me a house in the country
and grow that shit 'bout ten feet tall
I'm gonna plant, alongside Johnson Grass
which I pray grows, a little taller
If ya slide by the house -
and the lights are out -
you will hear me hoop 'n holler
(Chorus)
Lord Jesus, I'm stoned
ain’t doin' nobody no wrong
Doin' a little bit 'a
front porch thinkin'
some star-studded dreamin'
and singin' those gospel songs
Ain’t doin' nobody no harm
livin' on a Johnson Grass farm
I'm not guilty
of a crime
I'm just havin' me a time
and waitin' on the harvest to come
When the sun, in the evenin'
slowly slithers down
You will find me in my backyard
diggin' them plants up outta the ground
Naked as a newborn baby
and carefree as your local bum
Down on my hands 'n knees
prayin' for a rain shower to come
(Chorus)
Robin Griffin-acoustic
lead guitar
Wally Moyers-dobro
Jay Hataway- bass
Lloyd Maines-mandolin
Cary Swinney-vocal, acoustic guitar
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Twelve Januarys
Well the wind did blow
and the snow did blow
in January
But our beds were warm
and our feet were too
So put some cinnamon
in my coffee
and some butter on my bread
And I'll make up a song
for you
Well we've been scrutinized
and criticized -
and still we never married
But I'm still here
and you are too
So put tradition
in the cupboard
close and latch the door
And I'll make up a song
for you
Oh Dear, it's been twelve Januarys
since I first laid my hands on your boobs
Guess I'll never know why
you stay with a guy
Who's such a fast-paced
slow-witted fool
Cary Swinney-vocal,
acoustic guitar
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