Category: David Harley

Snowbird revisited

Backup:

I’ve got me a golden needle to help me tie my threads
I’ve got a bottle for my baby and a blanket for my head

So lay down, mama, lay down and let me be
Somehow I feel like old cold turkey has his claws in me

If I had a silver dollar like I’ve got one thin dime
You know I’d clip that turkey’s wings with another shot of turpentine

If I had me a roll as thick as my right leg
I think I’d fly back upcountry like a snowbird to its nest

I’m going back right now, back to my daddy’s farm
If I can find me a rag to bind up my left arm

Soul food when I’m hungry, white lightning when I’m dry
And maybe I’ll get to feeling better by and by

So lay down, mama, lay down and let me be
Somehow, I feel like old cold turkey has his claws in me

Paper City revisited

backup:

Rough mix, for the present, and possibly forever, since I’m currently recording a more ambitious version with David Higgen. The updated lyric (finally!) is added below.

A cheerful rock ‘n’ roll-ish ditty about the breakdown of the global economy, written in the very early 80s. These days I wonder which will go first: the economy, or the globe.

I woke up with my mind’s eye facing your direction:
I looked hard and I saw you needed help.
You’re choking on paper and tape and legislation,
But you can’t produce one thing to help yourself.

Paper city at the heart of a paper empire:
You’ve got strings to pull, you’ve got wires all over the earth.
Sky-climbing parasite, concrete and paper jungle,
You’ve got money to burn, but I know you’d rather freeze to death.

You’ve got stacks of stocks and shares and bonds:
You’ve got telephone and telex,databank and dateline too.
But you can’t produce as much as one lead pencil,
Or a bar of soap, or a rubber band to pull you through.

The media twitch at the flash of a freemason’s handshake:
Speeches are made and the punters gather round;
Paper politicians and faceless company men,
Taking the pulse of an ailing paper pound.

I bet you know just what you’re worth on paper:
When the market crumbles, what will that do to you?
So many cold people don’t own the earth they lie in:
Will you be all right in your green-lined paper tomb?

Paper city at the heart of a bankrupt empire:
Your towers get higher as your assets hit new lows.
Nose-diving parasite, I wouldn’t mind you dying,
But you’ll take so many with you when you go.

Updated lyric (recording not yet available); 

I woke up with my mind’s eye fixing your location:
I looked up and I saw you needed help.
You’re floating on algorithms that you can’t understand,
But you can’t produce one thing to help yourself.

Paper city at the heart of a paper empire:
You’ve got strings to pull, you’ve got wires all over the earth.
Sky-climbing parasite, stalking a paper jungle,
You’ve got money to burn, but I know you’d rather freeze to death.

You’ve got stacks of stocks and shares and bonds:
You’ve got more data than you’ll ever know how to use.
But you can’t produce as much as one lead pencil,
Or a bar of soap, or a rubber band to pull you through.

The media twitch at the flash of a freemason’s handshake:
Speeches are made and the punters gather round;
Paper politicians and faceless company men,
Sucking the sap from an ailing paper pound.

I bet you know just what you’re worth on paper:
When the market crumbles, what will you do?
So many cold people don’t own the earth they lie in:
Will you be OK in your green-lined paper tomb?

Paper city at the heart of a bankrupt empire:
Your towers get higher as your assets hit new lows.
Nose-diving parasite, I wouldn’t mind your dying,
But you’ll take so many with you when you go.