Sometimes there are parts of songs that blow me away. I love almost everything I've ever heard by Paul Simon but a few things stand out, this is one:

You Can Call Me AL

A man walks down the street
He says why am I soft in the middle now
Why am I soft in the middle
The rest of my life is so hard
I need a photo opportunity
I want a shot at redemption
Don’t want to end up a cartoon
In a cartoon graveyard
Bone-digger, bone-digger
Dogs in the moonlight
Far away my well-lit door
Mr. Beerbelly, beerbelly
Get these mutts away from me
You know I don’t find this stuff
Amusing anymore

<FONT >If you’ll be my bodyguard
I can be your long lost pal
I can call you Betty
And Betty when you call me
You can call me Al

A man walks down the street
He says why am I short of attention
Got a short little span of attention
And woe my nights are so long
Where’s my wife and family
What if I die here
Who’ll be my role model
Now that my role model is
Gone gone
He ducked back down the alley
With some roly-poly little bat-faced girl
All along along
There were incidents and accidents
There were hints and allegations

If you’ll be my bodyguard
I can be your long lost pal
I can call you Betty
And Betty when you call me
You can call me Al
Call me Al</FONT c>

A man walks down the street
It’s a street in a strange world
Maybe it’s the third world
Maybe it’s his first time around
He doesn’t speak the language
He holds no currency
He is a foreign man
He is surrounded by the sound
The sound
Of cattle in the marketplace of
Scatterlings and orphanages
He looks around around
He sees angels in the architecture they're
Spinning in infinity
And He says Amen Hallelujah

<FONT >If you’ll be my bodyguard
I can be your long lost pal
I can call you Betty
And Betty when you call me
You can call me Al
Call me

Na na na na …

If you’ll be my bodyguard
I can be your long lost pal
I can call you Betty
And Betty when you call me
You can call me Al

Call me Al</FONT c>

I'm a big Paul Simon fan, too (though his new album leaves me cold). But I once saw him interviewed, and the sycophantic interviewer kept trying to compliment him by saying his songs were "really" poems set to music. Paul insisted, "No, they're songs," I felt a little impatatiently because he didn't like to have songwriting degraded as an art from by insisting that it wasn't "just" songwriting when done right, but was somehow also poetry, which is somehow superior.

Hundreds of Burns poems stand alone as great poetrry, as do the songs in Shakespeare's Plays, and Thomas Campions poems. The great choral odes in Greek theater are song lyrics. In my time I think the only lyrics that make it are by Sondheim, and two Canadians, Ian Tyson and Stan Rogers. Though I grant that a few lyrics by Dylan and Joni Mitchell are excellent.

And in a lighter vein, Wilbur in "Candide" (Bernstein) and Auden in "The Rake's Progress" (Stravinsky).

Michael S.,
You're probably right that a song can't be expected to be as dense as a poem, since most have hook-lines that must be repeated a few times, not to mention the choruses.

But take someone like Paul McCartney, whose songs have great tunes, and sometimes some good lyrics. But even on his good ones, there are a lot of filler lines that really don't say anything - usually they're just tossed in for rhymes. When I hear one of those lines, I always think, "I wish he had posted that on the Sphere", and been pushed to come up with a line that pulled some weight. It would serve him well to think more like a poet sometimes.

But Bugsy, some of the old McCartney songs from the Beatles days are tight as can be. Off the top of my head, I think Paul gave us "Hey, Jude," "Eleanor Rigby," and "When I'm Sixty Four," among others.

The Beatles give us great examples of song lyrics that definitely do not stand up without the music, but which become sublime in performance, e.g., the whole song consisting of "I want you, I want you so bad it's driving me mad it's driving me mad," or even the song whose lyrics consist of "Number nine, number nine, number nine."

These minimalist lyric songs show the power of music to animate and give depth to lyrics. I think what we're seeing in this thread is that some songs take advantage of that power more than others, but even songs whose lyrics stand up reasonably well on their own can be revved up to a whole new level by the power or music to shape our perception of the words and to lend them immediacy. When the lyrics are great, the performance of the lyrics with their music can be even greater. Dylan wrote a wonderful refrain in "tryin' to get to heaven before they close the door," but in performance, at least for me, the refrain is over-the-top wonderful and powerful.

Right you are, Roger. And yet don't a spiffy pair of paisley suspenders look better with an elegant alligator belt than with a plain leather one?

Clay--

Paul Simon set "Richard Cory" to music, with some tinkering.

Sarah

This thread is proof that "classical" song is dead. Worse, its history is dead.

I wonder when it will be thought beside the point to mention Shakespeare or Keats?

Marcie

Marcie, in a coat of flowers
stops inside a candy store.
Reds are sweet and greens are sour.
Still no letter at her door.
So she'll wash her flower curtains,
hang them in the wind to dry,
dust her tables with his shirt and
Wave another day goodbye.

Marcie's faucet needs a plumber.
Marcie's sorrow needs a man.
Red is autumn green is summer.
Greens are turning and the sand
all along the ocean beaches
stares up empty at the sky.
Marcie buys a bag of peaches
Stops a postman passing by.

And summer goes
falls to the sidewalk like string and brown paper.
Winter blows
up from the river there's no one to take her
to the sea.

Marcie dresses warm its snowing.
Takes a yellow cab uptown.
Red is stop and green's for going.
Sees a show and rides back down,
down along the Hudson River
Past the shipyards in the cold.
Still no letter's been delivered.
Still the winter days unfold

like magazines
faded in dusty grey attics and cellars.
Make a dream.
Dream back to summer and hear how he tells her
wait for me.

Marcie leaves and doesn't tell us
where or why she moved away.
Red is angry green is jealous.
That was all she had to say.
Someone thought they saw her Sunday
window shopping in the rain.
Someone heard she bought a one-way
ticket and went west again.

Joni MItchell


I've loved this song for over 25 years and I still notice new things about it.

Robert Hunter's work for the Grateful Dead lays down as well or better on paper than most of the poems in his book published by Penguin, <u>The Sentinel and Other Poems</u>.
http://arts.ucsc.edu/Gdead/AGDL/

Sarah, you're totally right! I had forgotten about that song--which is a shame, considering how the only thing I listened to for about two years of high school was Simon & Garfunkel.

Paul also worked in some elements of Housman's "When I Was One-and-Twenty" into "Leaves That Are Green."

--CS

Glancing over this thread for the first time in... oh, ages. Thought I'd jot down the titles of a few more songs whose lyrics make no sense or come across a little stupid when just recited, but somehow work really well when set to music. I don't really feel up to googling them at the moment--but hey, you can!

"Our Mother the Mountain" by Townes Van Zandt. This one just comes across insane when read. (Townes wasn't entirely well.) When set to music, though, it's suitably creepy.

"In the Court of the Crimson King" by King Crimson. If anyone posted the lyrics to one of the boards--they'd be booed off for sucking (as well as for plagiarizing), probably with some picquant advice to lay off the psychotropics. But it works with a haunting mellotron line.

"Bodies" by the Sex Pistols. Idiotic, misogynistic nihilism, completely vile. Again, though, works well in its musical context.

I'll leave it there for the moment.

Quincy

Janet,

I detect bitterness in your recent post here. I certainly esteem the art song and did allude to Richard Strauss. In his lush art the texts seem, to me, almost beside the point. It is enough when listening to Vier letzte Lieder to remember the soprano is singing about "aging", "the soul" and other such abstractions. Give me early, I do say early, Fleming or give me Janowitz in these over the hyper-intelligent, nearly Sprechstimme Schwartzkopf. Perhaps Della Casa is the ideal mid-way between these approaches. (I'm oversimplifying everything for rhetoric of course.)
There are great composers who set great poems, and interpret those poems in their settings. Schubert, Schumann, Grieg, Britten, and many, many others. These give great artists endless opportunities for discovery. Lehmann, Schwartzkopf, de los Angeles, Fischer-Diskau, Hotter, Pears, etc., etc. Most of these texts existed as poems before they were set to music however.
There are truly great opera librettists, daPonte, Boito, Wagner, Hofmannsthal, Berg, Auden/Kallman and others.
Most posters concentrated on popular song because, I suspect, that is how they read the term "song lyrics".

Very best,
Michael Slipp

Quincy, add one more: "Debora" by T-Rex.

Debor-ee-dum, Debor-ee-duh-re-da
Debor-ee-dum, Debor-ee-duh-re-da
Debor-ee-dum, Debor-ee-duh-re-da

Oh Debora
Always look like a zeb-o-ra
Your sunken face is like a galleon
Hoarding mysteries of the Spanish Main

Debor-ee-dum, Debor-ee-duh-re-da
Debor-ee-dum, Debor-ee-duh-re-da
Debor-ee-dum, Debor-ee-duh-re-da

Ya da da ya ya
La de dum (etc.)

Oh Debora
Always dress like a conjurer
It's fine to your young face hiding
'Neath the stallion that I'm riding

Nah nah nah nah
Debor-ee-dum, Debor-ee-duh-re-da
Debor-ee-dum, Debor-ee-duh-re-da
Ya da da ya ya
Debor-ee-dum, Debor-ee-duh-re-da
Debor-ee-dum, Debor-ee-duh-re-da
Nah nah nah nah
Nah nah nah nah
Shhhhhhhhh

Debor-ee-dum, Debor-ee-duh-re-da
Debor-ee-dum, Debor-ee-duh-re-da
Ah-tch-tch-tch

Oh Debora
You look like a stallion
You look like a stallion
Your sunken face is like a galleon
Hoarding mysteries of the Spanish Main

{insert melisma}

* * *

I assure you it's all quite righteous once you hear it with the bongos intact.

--CS

Michael,
Thank you. Actually it was more grief than bitterness.
Of course "song lyrics" has that association. Where do the little Wilbur gems in "Candide" belong?
Market forces have squeezed the classical repertory right out of popular consciouness. Even the memory of it is almost dead. When poets here discuss poetry they still have a respect for the history of poetry but music seems to be entirely what market forces feed them. (Not you Carol ;) It is not just because their interest is words. It is the result of social engineering. Of course people will demand Coca Cola if they have never had a chance to develop a taste for fine wine.
Don't mistake me, I love and esteem Cole Porter and many other fine, accessible composers. But there is a black hole where music and poetry used to be. By that I mean the continuum of music and poetry.

I too love those Strauss songs. I have just been discussing Boito on Alan Sullivan's blog. In that case his libretti for Verdi. I know that the people in this thread would love and respect all of that just as much as I do. The record industry is the chief villain. It has narrowed and vulgarised performance and availability into the ground. Gone are the days when one could spend a day browsing in a record store.

I read a touching and honest article by Renée Fleming in which she spoke of her increasingly impossible struggle to sing with integrity because of inescapable commercial pressures.

I deeply appreciate your observations.
Janet




[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited June 13, 2006).]

Janet,

Thank you so much for your response. I read this morning that the great Hungarian composer Gyorgy Ligeti has died at 83. We poets all could learn from his exuberance and sense of play, and also his attention to texture and his ultimate seriousness. I think he was a genius of the front-rank, though I am prejudiced in favor of all things Magyar. Still I think that is a consensus view. If I were half a poet I'd write him an elegy, in several numbered parts, metrically intricate, in various forms, employing the folk-derived elements and the nonsense syllables he loved exploiting. It would have to allude gracefully to the enormities and political upheavals he witnessed and how nobly he survived them.

To pick up on your theme, Janet, without self-congratulation. What small elite must I belong to, attending concerts and buying recordings of contemporary "serious" music? Many of my friends, and they are diverse, have been fascinated by Ligeti, have laughed out loud upon hearing recordings. And Ligeti was lucky to be recorded so extensively and well. Imagine what we're missing and what we'll lose. We must value and we must educate. I have no answers.

Best,
Slipp

Clay,

One of the great virtues of T-Rex is how the completely nonsensical lyrics are delivered as if they are crucially and urgently important.

How about the following:

"Surfin' Bird" by the Trashmen

A-well-a everybody's heard about the bird
B-b-b-bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, the bird is the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, well the bird is the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, well the bird is the word
A-well-a bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, well the bird is the word
A-well-a bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a don't you know about the bird?
Well, everybody knows that the bird is the word!
A-well-a bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a...

A-well-a everybody's heard about the bird
Bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird, bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a don't you know about the bird?
Well, everybody's talking about the bird!
A-well-a bird, bird, b-bird's the word
A-well-a bird...

Surfin' bird
Bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb... [retching noises]... aaah!

Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-
Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow

Papa-ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Oom-oom-oom-oom-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, papa-oom-oom-oom
Oom-ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-a-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, ooma-mow-mow
Papa-oom-oom-oom-oom-ooma-mow-mow
Oom-oom-oom-oom-ooma-mow-mow
Ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
Papa-ooma-mow-mow, ooma-mow-mow
Well don't you know about the bird?
Well, everybody knows that the bird is the word!
A-well-a bird, bird, b-bird's the word

Papa-ooma-mow-mow, papa-ooma-mow-mow
[repeat to fade]


The Trashmen, by the way, are the only significant surf-rock band to come out of Minnesota, which, as the geographically fluent will note, is over a thousand miles from any coast.

Michael,
May I encourage you to write a poem for Ligeti? I don't know his work as well as I should but I am deeply impressed by the little I know. Who better to write the poem than you?

I was speaking of the recording catalogues. I am in no position where I now live to attend concerts and even before in Sydney the prices were astronomical. In my mindless London heyday I used to walk out of performances I didn't like. Now I should be so lucky ;)
Janet

One of my favorites from way back:

The Great Compromise

by John Prine

I knew a girl who was almost a lady
She had a way with all the men in her life
Every inch of her blossomed in beauty
And she was born on the fourth of July
Well she lived in an aluminum house trailer
And she worked in a juke box saloon
And she spent all the money I give her
Just to see the old man in the moon

Chorus:
I used to sleep at the foot of Old Glory
And awake in the dawn's early light
But much to my surprise
When I opened my eyes
I was a victim of the great compromise

Well we'd go out on Saturday evenings
To the drive-in on Route 41
And it was there that I first suspected
That she was doin' what she'd already done
She said "Johnny won't you get me some popcorn"
And she knew I had to walk pretty far
And as soon as I passed through the moonlight
She hopped into a foreign sports car

(Repeat chorus)

Well you know I could have beat up that fellow
But it was her that had hopped into his car
Many times I'd fought to protect her
But this time she was goin' too far
Now some folks they call me a coward
'Cause I left her at the drive-in that night
But I'd druther have names thrown at me
Than to fight for a thing that ain't right

(Repeat chorus)

Now she writes all the fellows love letters
Saying "Greetings, come and see me real soon"
And they go and line up in the barroom
And spend the night in that sick woman's room
But sometimes I get awful lonesome
And I wish she was my girl instead
But she won't let me live with her
And she makes me live in my head

(Repeat chorus)

Here is a lyric from the blues singer and guitarist, Robert Cray.

It seems to have the ring of personal experience, I feel.


Right Next Door (Because Of Me)

by The Robert Cray Band


I can hear the couple fighting right next door
Their angry words sound clear through these thin walls
Around midnight I hear him shout unfaithful woman
And I knew right there the axe was gonna fall

It's because of me
It's because of me

I heard him shout who is he, she mumbled low
He said baby don't you lie to me no more
And I'm listening through these thin walls silently
As he called out my name I was right next door

It's because of me
It's because of me

She was right next door and I'm such a strong persuader
That she was just another notch on my guitar
She's gonna lose the man that really loves her
In the silence I can hear their breaking hearts

At daybreak I hear him pack and say goodbye
I can hear him slam the door and walk away
Right next door I hear that woman start to cry
I should go to her but what would I say

It's because of me
It's because of me

She was right next door and I'm such a strong persuader
That she was just another notch on my guitar
She's gonna lose the man that really loves her
In the silence I can hear their breaking hearts.

===========

(Next time he needs a g-string he should maybe go to the music store.)


------------------
Mark Allinson

[This message has been edited by Mark Allinson (edited June 27, 2006).]

Here’s one that I really like:

If Only You Were Lonely (by the Replacements)

I walked out of work
And I was tired as hell
Another day come and gone, oh well
Somewhere there's a drink with my name on it

Well, I ordered a scotch as I bust through them doors
Spilled half on my jeans
The other half on the floor
When I saw you standing by that video game

Well, I ain't very good
But I get practice by myself
Forgot my one line
So I just said what I felt

If only you were lonely
If only you was lonely too
If only you was lonely
I'd go home with you

Twenty push-ups this morning
That was half of my goal
Tonight I'll be doin' pull-ups on the toilet bowl
And somewhere there's somebody a-throwin' up

Well, I broke the seal on my door
Poured myself to bed
The whirlpool spinning around in my head
There was liquor on my breath
You were on my mind

And I'll be dreamin' of that smile
Without a care in the world
If only you were lonely
If only you was lonely too
If only you were lonely

I walked out of the kitchen
I was tired as hell
Another day's here, oh well
Somewhere there's a smile with my name on it

I have to admit that I generally consider lyrics inferior to (other kinds of?) poetry, because lyrics rely on music while (the other kind of?) poetry (ideally) creates its own music, its own pace, its own rhythm, its own mood.

I disagree with the popular statement “it’s not what you say, but how you say it” when it comes to reading poetry. I dare anyone to read a limerick in a serious tone. Or to write a serious limerick, for that matter. My understanding (so far) is that in poetry, form is everything, while lyrics can pretty much get away without it.

Of course, this is not universally true for all poetry and all lyrics, but there are just so many flimsy lyrics out there that cannot stand alone without a melody because they lack a metrical backbone. And others are so metrical that I wouldn’t know how to distinguish them from poetry. Here's an excerpt from Anna Nalick's "Breathe," for example:

May he turned 21 on the base of Fort Bliss
"Just a day," he said down to the flask in his fist
Ain't been sober since maybe October of last year

One interesting thing to note is that in other languages (or at least in Hebrew) one word means both “poem” and “song.”

Maria

Maria--

Westerberg got way, way better than the above as a lyricist--even by Hootenany--though you get kudos for citing a relatively obscure B-side. "Color Me Impressed," while perhaps not poetry, perfectly sums up a number of parties I attended while an adolescent.

Then you hit "Let It Be"--and the cleverness is wed to raw, utterly believable emotion in songs like "Unsatisfied"--or drops out entirely in "Answering machine.

Then Tim--more classic Westerberg than you can shake a stick at--"Hold My Life," "Kiss Me on the Bus," "Little Mascara," "Here Comes a Regular"... one could go on.

Lyrical stand-outs on Pleased to Meet Me include "Never Mind," "Skyway," and "Red, Red Wine."

I'll skip Don't Tell a Soul and All Shook Down for reasons of the hour being late, but there are wonderful songs with wonderful lyrics on both--but Westerberg's lyrics go better with the music, though the man is second to none when it comes to subverting cliches.

Quincy

Maria,

I tried for quite some time tonight to resist your challenge. But, as you can see, I failed.

But another justification for posting the following piece I wrote (once posted on TDE) is that it picks up the idea from Quincy, that "poem" and "song" are closely linked in many languages, and that a sequence of limericks comes as close as poetic form can get to a type of song, or chant at least.

(Anyway, if it's inappropriate I am happy for it to be taken down.)


Sutra of the Irish Buddha

i

The term “human being” is wrong,
we cannot bear Being for long;
instead of awareness
we'd rather stay careless
and drift comatose with the throng.

ii

In preference to Being we dream
and work on the image we seem;
and the image we seem is
the ego whose dream is
to flatter its proud self-esteem.

iii

So drifting in dream is our lot,
where we plot about what can be got;
and acquiring possession
becomes our obsession
till Being is that which is not.

iv

But that which is not makes us fear
its void we sense threateningly near;
since we cannot profess it
we strive to repress it
and cover the gap with more gear.

v

And possession depends upon time,
since time is the essence of “mine”;
so when time fills our brains
little Being remains
to live in the now - life's sublime.


vi

In order that goals may be gained,
the ego must not be restrained;
if it ceased its becoming,
acquiring and summing,
you'd find little ego remained.

vii

To empty oneself is a death
which the ego treats as if Death;
it refuses to know
that beneath it, below,
is the place where our being is breath.

viii

And breath comes and goes as it will,
emptying so it can fill;
to hold it means losing
the flow and abusing
life's natural rhythms until

ix

our world and our wonder are lost,
with bitterness part of the cost;
we resent feeling sad
and believe it's too bad
when our aspirations are crossed.

x


So “human becomings” we are,
a term more appropriate, far;
but the pity is seeing
that missing our being
means we forget that we are.



[This message has been edited by Mark Allinson (edited July 09, 2006).]

Oh, great. First better Westerberg than I posted, then my idea gets picked up from Quincy, and now a serious limerick. What has the world come to?

Maria

Maria - I've heard this song

Anna Nalick's "Breathe," for example:

May he turned 21 on the base of Fort Bliss
"Just a day," he said down to the flask in his fist
Ain't been sober since maybe October of last year

I admire this song. Wonderful how she rhymes sober and October. The melody is very plain and simple, almost as if she were just reciting a poem.

You have a good point here: "there are just so many flimsy lyrics out there that cannot stand alone without a melody because they lack a metrical backbone."

I agree. So not a total loss, eh?

Mary

Thank you, Mary. My two decades’ worth of wisdom was in need of a pat on the back.

Maria

Hi, all--
Sorry about my relative silence of late; almost all of my spare moments in the past couple of weeks have been usurped by our new puppy-- whose name is Sally [Gardens] Taylor. She's been trying her best to house-train us, and I think we're finally starting to get the hang of it.

Anyway, I'm sure a number of you saw David Barber's review in the NYTBR today on the Library of America edition of Cole Porter's lyrics. After a glowing appraisal of Porter as songwriter, I found it interesting to note that he (Barber) has come to pretty much the same conclusions that many of us did on this thread a couple of weeks ago. He writes:

". . .it scarcely needs saying that to savor the full glory of Porter's literate ingenuity, you'd better have your earbuds handy. Truth be told, there's something about his words all by their lonesome that smacks of taxidermy; their pulse depends not only on the visceral artistry of vocal delivery but on the stage personas and narrative trappings so vital to Porter's collaborative medium."

Not only do I approve of that ingenious notion of "taxidermy"-- I also like his pointing out that writing lyrics is indeed a "collaborative" endeavor, even if you're a singer-songwriter and function as your own collaborator. In fact, I think Barber has responded with admirable insight to the is-it-poetry question.

Back to Milk-Bone Nation--

Marilyn

Well I can't get this song to erase from my mind
So I'm posting it here, anapestically sound.

Breathe

2 AM and she calls me cause I'm still awake
Can you help me unravel my latest mistake?
I don't love him, winter just wasn't my season.
Yeah we walk through the doors so accusing their eyes
Like they have any right at all to criticize
Hypocrites, you're all here for the very same reason.

Cause you can't jump the track
We're like cars on a cable
and life's like an hourglass glued to the table,
No one can find the rewind button, girl
So cradle your head in your hands.
And breathe, just breathe, whoa breathe, just breathe

May he turned 21 on the base of Fort Bliss
"Just a day," he said down to the flask in his fist
Ain't been sober since maybe October of last year
Here in town you can tell he's been down for awhile
But my God it's so beautiful when the boy smiles
Wanna hold him maybe I'll just sing about it

Cause you can't jump the track
We're like cars on a cable
And life's like an hourglass glued to the table,
No one can find the rewind button, boys
so cradle your head in your hands
And breathe, just breathe, whoa breath just breathe

There's a light at each end of this tunnel
You shout cause you're just as far in as you'll ever be out
And these mistakes you've made
You'll just make them again if you'll only try turnin' around

2 AM and I'm still awake writing this song
If I get it all down on paper it's no longer inside of me
Threatening the life it belongs to.
And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary screamin' out aloud
And I know that you'll use them however you want to.

But you can't jump the track
We're like cars on a cable
And life's like an hourglass glued to the table,
No one can find the rewind button now
Sing it if you understand, yeah breathe
Just breathe, oh oh breathe, just breathe, oh breathe,
just breathe, oh breathe, just breathe

Hi Mary,

Here is another song with the same title, by the English band "Depeche Mode."

A dimeter song.


Breathe

I heard a rumour
They travel far
You know what it's like
The way people are
They talk and they talk
Though they don't understand
They'll whisper and whisper
And lie on demand
Please tell me now
I want to know
I have to hear it from your lips
Say it's not so

I heard it on Monday
And I laughed a while
I heard it on Tuesday
I managed to smile
I heard it on Wednesday
My patience was tried
I heard it on Thursday
And I hurt inside
I want to know
The depths of your mind
Tell me this whole thing is madness
And we're doing fine
Put your little hand in mine
And believe in love
Put your head on my chest
And breathe love
Breathe love
Breathe love
Breathe love

I heard it from Peter
Who heard it from Paul
Who heard it from someone
I don't know at all
I heard it from Mary
Who heard it from Ruth
Who swore on the bible
She's telling the truth
I heard it from Simon
Who heard it from James
Confirming with Sarah
That I was to blame
I heard it from Joseph
Who heard it from John
Who said with conviction
That all hope was gone
So I need to know
Your alibis
I need to hear that you love me
Before you say goodbye
Before you say goodbye
Before you say goodbye
Before you say goodbye

Pirate Jenny
Bertold Brecht (Trans. Marc Blitzstein, I think)

You people can watch while I'm scrubbing these floors
And I'm scrubbin' the floors while you're gawking
Maybe once ya tip me and it makes ya feel swell
In this crummy Southern town
In this crummy old hotel
But you'll never guess to who you're talkin'.
No. You couldn't ever guess to who you're talkin'.

Then one night there's a scream in the night
And you'll wonder who could that have been
And you see me kinda grinnin' while I'm scrubbin'
And you say, "What's she got to grin?"
I'll tell you.

There's a ship
The Black Freighter
with a skull on its masthead
will be coming in

You gentlemen can say, "Hey gal, finish them floors!
Get upstairs! What's wrong with you! Earn your keep here!
You toss me your tips
and look out to the ships
But I'm counting your heads
as I'm making the beds
Cuz there's nobody gonna sleep here, honey
Nobody
Nobody!

Then one night there's a scream in the night
And you say, "Who's that kicking up a row?"
And ya see me kinda starin' out the winda
And you say, "What's she got to stare at now?"
I'll tell ya.

There's a ship
The Black Freighter
turns around in the harbor
shootin' guns from her bow

Now
You gentlemen can wipe off that smile off your face
Cause every building in town is a flat one
This whole frickin' place will be down to the ground
Only this cheap hotel standing up safe and sound
And you yell, "Why do they spare that one?"
Yes.
That's what you say.
"Why do they spare that one?"

All the night through, through the noise and to-do
You wonder who is that person that lives up there?
And you see me stepping out in the morning
Looking nice with a ribbon in my hair

And the ship
The Black Freighter
runs a flag up its masthead
and a cheer rings the air

By noontime the dock
is a-swarmin' with men
comin' out from the ghostly freighter
They move in the shadows
where no one can see
And they're chainin' up people
and they're bringin' em to me
askin' me,
"Kill them NOW, or LATER?"
Askin' ME!
"Kill them now, or later?"

Noon by the clock
and so still by the dock
You can hear a foghorn miles away
And in that quiet of death
I'll say, "Right now.
Right now!"

Then they'll pile up the bodies
And I'll say,
"That'll learn ya!"

And the ship
The Black Freighter
disappears out to sea
And
on
it
is
me

I actually wept the first time I heard this (as an adult):

COPPERHEAD ROAD

by Steve Earle

Well my name's John Lee Pettimore
Same as my daddy and his daddy before
You hardly ever saw Grandaddy down here
He only came to town about twice a year
He'd buy a hundred pounds of yeast and some copper line
Everybody knew that he made moonshine
Now the revenue man wanted Grandaddy bad
He headed up the holler with everything he had
It's before my time but I've been told
He never came back from Copperhead Road

Now Daddy ran the whiskey in a big block Dodge
Bought it at an auction at the Mason's Lodge
Johnson County Sheriff painted on the side
Just shot a coat of primer then he looked inside
Well him and my uncle tore that engine down
I still remember that rumblin' sound
Well the sheriff came around in the middle of the night
Heard mama cryin', knew something wasn't right
He was headed down to Knoxville with the weekly load
You could smell the whiskey burnin' down Copperhead Road

I volunteered for the Army on my birthday
They draft the white trash first,'round here anyway
I done two tours of duty in Vietnam
And I came home with a brand new plan
I take the seed from Colombia and Mexico
I plant it up the holler down Copperhead Road
Well the D.E.A.'s got a chopper in the air
I wake up screaming like I'm back over there
I learned a thing or two from ol' Charlie don't you know
You better stay away from Copperhead Road

Copperhead Road
Copperhead Road
Copperhead Road

Come All Ye Fair and Tender Maids (traditional)

Come all ye fair and tender maids
that flourish in your prime, your prime
Beware, beware, keep your garden fair
Let no man steal your thyme, your thyme.
Let no man steal your thyme.

A woman is a branch-ed tree,
and man a singing wind, wind.
And from her branches carelessly
he'll take what he can find, can find
he'll take what he can find.

***

So in answer to your question, Marilyn: I don't know about your neck of the woods, but the bears sure do in mine.

Drika

Peter Gabriel makes inroads here I think in his song:

"Darkness"

i'm scared of swimming in the sea
dark shapes moving under me
every fear i swallow makes me small
inconsequential things occur
alarms are triggered
memories stir
it's not the way it has to be

i'm afraid of what i do not know
i hate being undermined
i'm afraid i can be devil man
and i'm scared to be divine
don't mess with me my fuse is short
beneath this skin these fragments caught

when i allow it to be
there's no control over me
i have my fears
but they do not have me

walking through the undergrowth, to the house in the woods
the deeper i go, the darker it gets
i peer through the window
knock at the door
and the monster i was
so afraid of
lies curled up on the floor
is curled up on the floor just like a baby boy

i cry until i laugh

i'm afraid of being mothered
with my balls shut in the pen
i'm afraid of loving women
and i'm scared of loving men
flashbacks coming in every night
don't tell me everything's alright

when i allow it to be
it has no control over me
i own my fear
so it doesn't own me

walking through the undergrowth, to the house in the woods
the deeper i go, the darker it gets
i peer through the window
knock at the door
and the monster i was
so afraid of
lies curled up on the floor
is curled up on the floor just like a baby boy

i cry until i laugh


I feel the discussion is worthy. There are many interesting takes in this thread. At its core music certainly has enough room for real poetry to sort of seep around the edges if not full-fledged gems coming through. However most music could certainly not be attributed this dual-moniker for reasons already stated as well as others. Though I have long been impressed by certain of Joni Mitchell's lyrics, and called them poetic, even I must admit most of her work would not shine well under harsh and strict interpretation. But I think the two forms, though sometimes vastly different, can suit each other to the degree questioned.
It seems apparent, at least to me, that song lyrics CAN be excellent poetry. It also seems certain this is far from frequent when the discussion rolls around to specific instances of poetry/music.