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I don’t want to spend another uninspiring hour
in a smoke-filled bar pretending that I care
about some great rebellion, or the poetry of freedom,
dropping names of people that I wish were there.

Even if I felt like drinking, it would feel just like more boredom,
endless motions in some pointless riparte;
just words wasted in a neverending stab at conversation
trying to forget I’ve got nothing to say.

I don’t want to mix and mingle with another group of strangers
who are only there to see and to be seen;
interested in the deception of making some great connection
over shots of cheap tequila and Jim Beam.

I don’t care about your politics, your sex life or your business,
and you damned sure won’t be interested in mine;
so what’s the point of all of this? It seems so unimportant;
and a lot like wasting too much precious time.

I don’t want to spend another minute doing this great nothing
that we seem to think is how to get along.
If that’s all there is, I’m finished; you can muddle on without me.
I won’t bother writing you any more songs.

11 FEB 2007

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Let the Other Fellow Be

I don’t talk politics down at the honky-tonk;
doesn’t seem to make much sense to me:
stirring up a hornet’s nest with some of ol’ Milwaukee’s best
and finding out just where we disagree.

We both want the same things, besides, more or less:
love and understanding with some happiness.
What’s the point of splitting hairs on points of law?
Let’s agree nobody wins, and call this one a draw


This is a free country: we each pay for our own drinks
it doesn’t really matter what the guy next to you thinks
If you don’t like my politics, don’t saddle me with yours
we’ll get along while the beer’s cold and the malt whiskey pours
What’s good about America is folks like you and me
Can put aside our differences and behave civilly
Besides, the hardest part of freedom is, it seems to me,
Being smart enough to let the other fellow be.

I don’t talk religion from a barstool seat;
doesn’t seem appropriate to me:
mixing sin and righteousness like tonic and bad gin
seems to me a recipe for trouble to begin

We both want the same thngs anyway, my friend:
Love and some security for what’s beyond the bend.
What’s the point of arguing on some old books?
Let’s agree nobody’s right, and most of ’em are crooks.


This is a free country: we each pay for our own way
it doesn’t really matter what the guy next to you says
If you don’t like my point of view, don’t saddle me with yours
we’ll get along while the beer’s cold and the malt whiskey pours
What’s good about America is folks like you and me
Can put aside our differences and behave civilly
Besides, the hardest part of freedom is, it seems to me,
Being smart enough to let the other fellow be.

30 DEC 2005

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Lucky Number

I’m thinking about the Bakersfield sound, and a song by Merle Haggard in particular — “I Must Have Been Somebody Else You’ve Known”, which as far as I can tell is only available in a version by the International Submarine Band (Gram Parsons’ outfit pre-Sweetheart of the Rodeo and Flying Burritos). Thinking about Buck Owens, too, and that brother act / close harmony from Appalachia married with Western Swing, and also thinking about how lucky I am to be in the relationship I’m in — a gamble that has paid off in dividends beyond my wildest imagination.

For my lucky number (#25)

Love’s always been a lottery as far as I’m concerned
You lay your money down, you roll the dice, and you get burned
A sure thing Friday night’s all right ’til Sunday comes around
And you find out the race was fixed; one more lost weekend down.

Where lady luck’s concerned I’ve struck out nearly every time
My credit’s gone to hell and I’m down to my last worn dime
While other guys get lucky I’m the one shot down in flames
But I’m back every weekend just the same …

I’m hoping that you’ll be my lucky number, ’cause I’ve got everything I own on you.
You’ve got all my wheels spinning, feels like I just might be winning
and my losing streak will finally break in two.
I’m hoping that you’ll be my lucky number, and that I’ll end ahead this time around;
Oh, seven come eleven, won’t you be my slice of heaven
and I’ll end my gambling ways and settle down.

Love’s always been a game of chance where all the money cards
seem to escape my hand, my plans die fast and they die hard;
A solid bet on some coquette turns into morning rain
A fleeting song, goodbye, so long and I’m alone again

Where passion sparks, my matches are soaked through with bitter tears
I’m left holding a worthless stub when the racetrack is cleared
While other guys are finding love they probably don’t deserve
I’m at the low end of the romance curve …

I’m hoping that you’ll be my lucky number, ’cause I’ve got all my hopes tied up in you.
You’ve got all my wheels spinning, feels like I might be winning
and this losing streak I’m on will soon be through.
I’m hoping that you’ll be my lucky number, and that I’ll hit the jackpot finally;
Oh, seven come eleven, won’t you be my slice of heaven
get lucky with a poor gambler like me.

19 DEC 2005

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