Day after day, alone on a hill,
The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still.
But nobody wants to know him,
They can see that he’s just a fool.
And he never gives an answer.
But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down,
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning 'round.
-“BB”-
We’re on a carousel
A crazy carousel
And now we go around
Again we go around
And now we spin around
We’re high above the ground
And down again around
And up again around
So high above the ground
We feel we’ve got to yell
We’re on a carousel
A crazy carousel
He can haul a scow along a canal
Run a cow around a corral
Or maybe bark for a carousel
Of course it takes talent to do that well
Riding along on a carousel, trying to catch up to you
Riding along on a carousel, will I catch up to you?
Horses chasing 'cause they’re racing
So they ain’t so far
On a carousel
On a carousel
Oh, the Merry-Go-Round broke down
And we went round and round
Each time t’would miss, we’d steal a kiss
Father was a singing man, most of what he sang
Had to do with Ireland, the place from where he came.
Ireland of his childhood, Ireland of his spring
To return to Ireland was his dream.
Drink a round to Ireland boys, I’m home again.
Drink a round to Jesus Christ, who died for Irishmen.
Consumption took me mother and
Me father got the pox
Me brother drank the whiskey till he wound up in a box
Me other brother in The Troubles met with his demise
Me sister has forever closed her smiling Irish eyes
Now everybody’s died
So, until our tears have dried
We’ll drink and drink and drink and drink and then we’ll drink some more
We’ll dance and sing and fight until the early morning light
Then we’ll throw up, pass out, wake up, and then go drinking once again
Oh, I eat when I’m hungry, I drink when I’m dry,
And if the moonshine don’t kill me,
I’ll live ‘till I die!
Could have been the whiskey, might have been the gin.
Could have been three or four six-packs,
I don’t know, but look at the mess I’m in,
My head is like a football, I think I’m gonna die,
Tell me, me oh me oh my,
Wasn’t that a party?
Show me the way to go home –
I’m tired and I want to go to bed.
I had a little drink about an hour ago,
And it’s gone right to my head.
He wear no shoeshine
He got toe jam football
He got monkey finger
He shoot Coca-Cola
He say I know you, you know me
One thing I can tell you is
You got to be free
Come together, right now
Over me
She said, “You’re just a Coca-Cola cowboy,
You got an Eastwood smile and Robert Redford hair.”
“But you walked across my heart like it was Texas, and you taught me how to say, I just don’t care!”
I done ran into my baby
And finally found my old blue jean
Well, I could tell that they was mine
From the oil and the gasoline
When I wake up in the morning light,
I pull on my jeans and I feel all right,
I pull my blue jeans on, I pull my old blue jeans on,
I pull my blue jeans on, I pull my old blue jeans on.
*Bluejean baby, L.A. lady
Seamstress for the band
Pretty eyed, pirate smile
You’ll marry a music man
Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing on the sand…*
He’s a music man
He’s a what?
He’s a what?
He’s a music man and he sells clarinets
To the kids in the town with the big trombones
And the rat-a-tat drums, big brass bass, big brass bass
And the piccolo, the piccolo with uniforms, too
With a shiny gold braid on the coat and a big red stripe runnin’…
I’m a brass band,
I’m a harpsichord;
I’m a clarinet!
I’m the Philadelphia Orchestra,
I’m the Modern Jazz Quartet!
I’m the band from Macy’s Big Parade.
A wild Count Basie blast!
I’m the bells from Saint Peter’s in Rome
I’m tissue paper on a comb…
I was bruised and battered, I couldn’t tell what I felt
I was unrecognizable to myself
Saw my reflection in a window and didn’t know my own face
So brother are you gonna leave me wasting away
On the streets of Philadelphia
My hands are tied, my body’s bruised.
She’s got me with nothing to win…
and…
nothing left to lose.
Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose
Nothin’, don’t mean nothin’ hon’ if it ain’t free, no no
And, feelin’ good was easy, Lord, when he sang the blues
You know, feelin’ good was good enough for me
Good enough for me and my Bobby McGee