Lyrics:
How will this one begin?
A conversation or high-tide?
Perhaps some strangers on a train?
How bout vulgar genocide?
He longs to find the holy grail.
Your hills and dales and flowery vales
That lie near the Moorlough Shore
Your vines that blow by borden's grove
Will I ever see no more
Where
Just another day, same as most before
Nothing to mark it as unique
Never would have guessed how different it would be
Shocked by the news that cut so
soon
On my way
It won't be long, perhaps this afternoon.
I'll follow signs that point the way
To yet another empty day
Seems it's just my generation
But
It's quiet this morning
The birds aren't singing
Perhaps they're leaving
Perhaps they're dreaming
of the way it might have been
If we'd begun
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled
I was a highwayman
Along the coach roads, I did ride
With sword and pistol by my side
Many a young maid lost her baubles to my trade
Many
A bottle of white, a bottle of red
Perhaps a bottle of rose instead
We'll get a table near the street
In our old familiar place
You and I, face
that in love
I'd be lost and so easily led
I guess I was caught
By that hint of a smile on her face
I thought I was happy
When my life was as easy
Soon we'll come to the end of life's journey
And perhaps we'll never meet anymore
Till we gather in Heaven's bright city
Far away on that beautiful
a prison
Without anyone ever knowing
And, we live in a nation
Developed by racists
Perpetuating racism on a regular basis
So, how do I make statement
That I
Everyone wants to be a cowboy
Grab your guns boy
Forty-five by my side, do he live
No the nigga dies
Zen, zen zen zen zen zen zen
You shot
Everyone wants to be a cowboy
Grab your guns boy
Forty-five by my side, do he live
No the nigga dies
Zen, zen zen zen zen zen zen
You shot your
murderer!
He must be found!
Hounded out by everyone!
Met with hatred everywhere!
No kind word from anyone!
No compassion anywhere!
Christine,
think, perhaps, sir
You will have to make up your mind
To abide by the rules of this house that is
If you want the job
I started work on the script
I
A bottle of whites, a bottle of red
Perhaps a bottle of rose instead
We'll get a table near the street
In our old familiar place
You and I, face
Hearin you out is senseless, perhaps for instance
I give this faggot a french kiss
Black gloves, no prints, dark tints
Word on the street they ain't heard
Hearin' you out is senseless, perhaps for instance
I give this faggot a french kiss
Black gloves, no prints, dark tints
Word on the street they ain't
Words and music by Arlo Guthrie
Living now here but for fortune
Placed by fate's mysterious schemes
Who'd believe that we're the ones asked
To try
You're always dancing in and out of view
I must have thought you would always be around
Always keeping things real by playing the clown
Now you're nowhere
me
Why do I love you I love you for closing your eyes to the dischords
And for adding to the music in me by worshipful listening
I love you because
Hearin' you out is senseless, perhaps for instance
I give this faggot a french kiss
Black gloves, no prints, dark tints
Word on the street they ain't
Miss Marmelstein, Miss Marmelstein
Other girls get called by their first names right away
They get cozy intimate
Do you know what I mean'
the fact that you need them
And if you find yourself in great transition
And you think perhaps you've lost your way
On the edge and fragile your
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