You graduated into a free fall, Does your degree mean anything at all? Isn’t it odd that all your prejudices, Show when your on the hiring squad, All of your business students Go through a crassness phase, They learn to live under their own Creative umbrella, finely bred and amply praised, Did you ever find The seedy underground, Where all the transitionals are found? You have the wealth and the Sacrifice, To live all of your demons down. You’ll end up eating cats in San Francisco, Kamikaze socialists, You turn your car into reverse, And cross your name off of a list. Upon a field marked by even glory, You had your conscience stoned, And as you fell into the circuits and wires, Your body took its last groan - Something picked you up and flipped you over, Challenging the flow of the freeway, And upside down upon the median, You saw your soul in an ashtray.

The Road Calls, I’m damned to choose, Wisdom to gain, Comfort to lose, Neither is shelter, Neither is home, To hell with it all, I’ll still die alone. My father’s Drunken Will, Is to fall from a canyon, Out his own windowsill, Our house sits, The edge of a cliff, Our walls made of tall-tales, Our roofs made of myths, Each of my brothers Was born from the rain, And each of my sister’s Was born with a name, Trouble and sorrow Madness and Gloom, We are the children Of the house of Blues. My memory of mother’s Her Washing my face – And washing my heart Of this god awful place, She made arrangements To drown in the lake, She taught us to nit And she taught us to bake As soon as all of Her reasons were gone, She woke up at midnight, And died before dawn. I jumped a train At seventeen, I learned to be ugly I learned to be mean, I learned how to clean off A shirt and a tie, I learned how to Gamble, I learned how to lie – The middle of seven’s A strange place to be, The middle of seven’s The place for me, Each of my brothers Was born in the rain Each of my sister’s Was born with a name, Trouble and Sorrow Madness and Gloom We are the children Of the house of Blues. All of my teachers, Told me it’s wrong, To whistle in graveyards And cuss in my songs, I think they let me, Fall through the cracks, And left me alone By the railroad tracks, I’m always half lyin’ I’m always half drunk, My spirit’s are torn, And my eye lids are sunk, The Next Great Depression Is well on it’s way, I’ll be prepared for Judgment day. But we’ll all be ready my friends. Cause we’ll have learned this song and we can sing it together while we wait in line for our gruel outside the Bank of America building, just like your great granddaddies did 80 years ago and they’ll be charging us interest for every minute we’re standin’ in line but we won’t care ‘cause we’ll be singin

They split it up 50/50: A public and private cemetary. 60’s boarder county line, It’s been that way far all of time, Crossing over the reservoir, Some kids know they’ve driven too far – Commissioned extend the metro rail – The county fought it tooth and nail. The generation from out of town, Moved themselves to higher ground – Now last night a fight on Bourbon street, Made the truth so clear to me. How do you trust another man - When he holds with his mouth and speaks with his hands? And how do you prove that he gives a fuck? Well, if he don’t then we’re out of luck, The cops chased me down Liberty road, I’m wanted for all the smiles that I stole. Try bussing county kids into the city – Those yoga mothers will stop lookin’ pretty. You can’t catch me in my time machine, I’m headed back to 1950, It’s O.K. ma’am, my oil has been changed, Everything else might still be the same. Now I’m watchin’ them build the Oakland dam, Across the river is hunting land – The graves are after Liberty bridge, You can walk through the liquor store and over the ridge – When you put those kids to bed, We resurrect the hate of the down These ghosts chase me down Liberty Road, I’m wanted for the secret I stole, Naked in the summer night – Flashing through the highway lights, Remembering every drug that I used, Stuck spinning ‘round with these beltway blues. These houses with sidings that never fade always have sharp lawnmower blades And when you see that golf ball moon Gleaming in the afternoon, Get the children out of bed, To resurrect the hate of the dead. I will be there, stripped and insane, Rolling about in the sun and the rain.

The hottest place in hell’s for those who are jaded, Hotlines on the crisis lines are being re-created – To explain the difference between my brand new appliances, And the quantifying factor of the social sciences, I could scream over the intercom that I am Jesus Christ, And I’d be just like the drunken kid on the price is right, College put a price tag on liberalism – Now, the only way for me to fight’s to wind up in prison What do you mean that people actually live here? Where the roads are paved and the tracks are clear, And there’s little happy coffee shops on every corner, Tell me it’s a set for some old 70’s porn or, Something that was built in studio seven – Because it might be a hell that looks like heaven . My assassin’s gun is loaded with a plastic flag – Every sniffling cynic blows his nose upon that rag, Have you heard about the newest application for the smart phone – It’s a bullshit – o – meter, I only opened mine when I’m stoned. I used it on this kid who made his money slitting wrists, And then collected all the royalties on his journal drawn in sand-script, Mama, mama, told me I was good with words, Now I work for the news fillin’ the ad-lib have you heard? Believe you me “to be” is my only ad-lib verb – We are hurting, we are sad, we are disturbed. Now all that I need is a time of crisis So I can burn beneath the rubble of all my own devices Have you heard my new religion? It’s called pornographic satire, And it is like the tales of everyman but the premiums are higher, On last weeks episode, I had justice fucking greed, And the last forty five minutes was the children that they breed. The underlying theme is that nothing really changes, But every several hundred years the plot line rearranges The hottest place in hell is still for those who are jaded, Well, holy hell my friends, I think that I have made it!

Once her age had been compromised, A long black veil dropped over her eyes, So all she swore, Became a shadow of the love she had before. All hail the next American Queen, The last one has cracks along her aging seems, And is pouring out Of that girdle that no one knew about – “I’d rather be blind than love by what I see,” Or die, die like Jimmy Dean, Before my time runs away from me – He had been restless for thirty years, Running from them nineteen fifties family fears, And never found A place to put his feet upon some solid ground, He would tell you that he had never loved, His mistress was somewhere below or above – And where he lied, Was a bed that was made up of his ugly pride, “I’d rather be blind than love by what I see,” Or die, die like Jimmy Dean, Before my time runs away from me – Don’t forget in times like this, That you close your eyes when you take a kiss – And if that ain’t right, Then the closest thing to love is the night. I’m young enough to still play musical chairs, Dancin’ till I hope to find a bed somewhere, Turn out the light, And the closest thing to love is the night.

We’re both facing to the wall, Awake, Ruby this is not a mistake, I’m sweating 80 proof I know, At least I knew to come back, We’re square, Ruby I got to be fair, Here is to cheating blow for blow – To all the elephants in rooms, And children trapped inside balloons You can be the kind who says goodbye Or stick your middle finger in the pi, I used to play by right and wrong, I’ve changed, Now I do weak and strong, And I refuse to be your dog - And I ain’t goin’ anywhere, It’s begun, Ruby this fighting could be fun, Best way to spend a Saturday Night i Ruby put those dishes down, Don’t cry, I’ll lay beside you when we die, Best seats in all of Highlandtown Look whose drink and in the park That’s life – Ruby a man and his wife Let’s wear our tux and wedding gown

Since I quit you, I’ve been speaking my mind, It’s gotten me in trouble a couple of times: My drinking’s gotten a little crazier, And my memory’s gotten hazier, I don’t remember the last time, My throat wasn’t sore, Since I quit you I don’t care to Sing pretty anymore – Since I quit you, I seemed to have lost my way, I wake up each morning not knowing the end of the day – And you ask me, does that bother me? Well, no I think I like the uncertainty, I’ve been sleepin’ in cars, I been successfully failing my plans, Slowly but surely, I’m turning into a rambling man I can never hang to long around, After a while it starts to bring me down, I end up wondering down the basement stairs And hanging with all of the rats and spiders down there: I can’t remember, ` What it was that I loved you for, Down in the basement, As I look up at you through the glass floor – You care to ask where all the bad guys run? Well, what if I told you I was becoming one, Counting lines on the interstate, Becoming someone that I once would’ve hate I am an irreverent Carpetbagger up on a preacher stand – Be wise to run me out of town: Lord, I’m a rambling man. Livin’ to die, but writing a couple of songs, Nobody listens to you until you are gone, So when they lay me in that ugly ground, They might bury me but they can’t live me down, I’ll die smilin’, My throat just a little sore, Once I sang soft for you, But Lord, I can’t sing pretty anymore

Singing in the catacombs, She rattles all our chalky bones, Trying hard to serve her grace, a mile beneath the ground, Fleshy corpses revolutions, Making wars with no solution, What stands tall’s the dead – Just their skeletons and crowns, Every blade of grass is painted with love, Made to serve as blankets for the ladies above – But those days are gone, God is asking why? The girl’s are busy weeping and the fields are dry. If you love the queen of Hade, Saddest of the pretty ladies, Know she weeps when blood is spilled at times when there’s no rain, People become carnivores, Try to keep it behind doors, The animals go crazy and the dead lose all their names Priests put all their faith in doubt, That nothing will destroy the draught – And one by one they kill all of the devils that they blamed, No air-conditioner, tank or gun, Can fight against the scorching sun, Companies will crack their whips, but the fire can’t be tamed Singing in the catacombs, She rattles all our chalky bones, Trying hard to serve her grace, a mile beneath the ground, If you know the queen of Hade, Saddest of the pretty ladies, The drought will flood her gates as the dead come pouring down

If I couldn’t read or write I’d be a butterfly – And know the breeze that’s polished by words: Is Something that never survives. How do I know that I love you my dear, If I’ve never tried staying awake? At times when the curious night – Mocks me for what is at stake. So sleep, sleep, quiet my dear: All those books will cover your skin, And you and I will learn all the wrong words And the silence is what makes us grin. You’ve showed me that weakness is, A puppeteer trying to fly – The angel that dances upon his strings, Is the dream that makes him cry. You’ve left me with no one to hate: Nothing to mold with this clay, No monuments for fear that death, Had everything truthful to say. I dreamt that I had caged myself – And you came and visited me – Shackles held your arms and legs, Neither one of us was free, Somewhere down a corridor – A butterfly flapped its wings, We both began to shake and cough, And then we began to sing.

There’s no face that shimmers before her eyes, And there’s nothing that she dreams of at night. When she speaks there no conviction in her words, Her sympathy is for the birds, The cop car lights reveal her face, Casting shadows all about her place – But no officer ever comes in, To see us heaped in these garbage bins. She buried all them ancient books down deep, The only thing her grandmother told her to keep, And all I ever wanted was a glimpse into her heart, But I couldn’t tear her lips apart, Somehow I began to fall, And now I don’t care about anything at all. Drug me like a drunkard down her hall, I married the siren’s call, When it comes to love, she keeps us dry, Sit around with the other poets waiting to die, She lets us figure out how to feed – We turn on each other in our time of need. The next to die writes to ease his pain, So when he dies he leaves his stain, Now, the boys let me bleed this shipwreck song, Won’t be dinner time before too long – Shoot that Novocain up my spine, Looks like my turn is up in line –

What goes on behind them doors, Ever since they closed? Burnin’ oil or drinkin, smokin’ cigars, We all want to know. And how do you like the view up there – The streets are full of want, While you’re dressing up in wedding gowns For the marriage of your daughter debutante. Well, her dark horse sister invited me – We were both naked in the crowd, And your smiling princess shut us out, Said we got too loud, I said, “ I got my ticket right here – Earned by my degree.” You said, it’s just a rag for ruin In broken times like these.” Well, you cashed me out, And brought me down from my existential high, Well, this morphine drips no good – For what I’d been injecting into my eyes. Blind to all the useless toil, Of all those books I read – While your future son in law Was drunk pissing in his I.V. League bed – But somewhere in those empty pages, I felt the dying rise and fall – Of an empire running out of fuel – It made me feel so small. Now I hope that old laureate knows, That his chimes are all off key – Or maybe it’s just the wind and thunder Playing tricks on me – Now, to sing at the monument, We all know how it looks: An epilogue for wax museums And sterile history books Them cranes got dusty, The steel got rusty, the work got jaded quick, Well, this morphine drips no good, I need my angry fix - Now, congress passes notes To CEOs while they’re on trial, That say, “Let’s just pretend To keep them happy for a while, Now, I heard you bought the drum line For that sleeping candidate, So he could sound loudest During the debate. Now, pocket aces grace your hands And you to make the rules – And if I had no sticks and stones, You’d play me like a fool, Now, I’m tired of this empty game I’m tired of this song – The man that writes this storyline’s Been poking me too long A lick of flame had told me, That everything’s on fire – And they’re sacrificing to the bull Upon that desert pyre – With no way up, and no way down And matches in my hand, I railed against the altar, That great monument to man. To my surprise my hocus pocus Trick proved to be weak, And fire singed my hands and throat And burned my raven beak The guillotines are ready To cut your French baguette You better P.O. Box your stash And hide your Antoinette Or better yet, come clean And pull that spoon out of your mouth, Aristocratic sentiments Should Have Died with the south Now, I could join the army, Or the Peaceful corp, Try to stand for something, At least, not sit here anymore, Or stay at this computer With my pants below my waist Rotting in this swivel chair Some devil laughing in my face