"Billy Goat" Bill Sianis Had box seats to game four Of the '45 World Series Cubs versus Detroit One seat he would sit in The other was for his kid A goat by the name of Murphy Who the Cubs had always admitted That day an usher wouldn't let them To their box at Wrigley Field So directly to the owner PK Wrigley he appealed The answer came from Wrigley It was final and succinct He said there’d been a few complaints Some people didn’t like the stink Sianis, he was livid His face was turning blue He went out past the turnstiles Onto Waveland Avenue The vendors on the sidewalk Say he raised his arms up first And with his hands above his head They say he placed The Curse Just then a cloud passed over From the lake a chilly wind Anybody within earshot Woulda had goosebumps on their skin The skeptics say baloney (it’s hoo-ha) The poets make up verse 60 some years later They still blame it on the curse Those two box seats bore witness As the Tigers took the game Like they would games five & seven The Cubbies came up lame Ol' Billy Goat Sianis Got the last word, Holy Cow He telegrammed Mr. Wrigley Asked him “Who smells now?” It stared at Leo Durocher Stared right at his lip And Leo stood there staring back With his hands upon his hips On the top step of the dugout A cat the color of a hearse They blew a nine game lead in '69 People say it was The Curse They were playing for the pennant In 1984 Against the San Diego Padres They only had to win one more To advance to the World Series But they slipped into reverse And when Durham flubbed a grounder People blamed it on the curse Most recently, 2003 And just five outs away When a Cubs fan tried to catch a foul While the ball was still in play The lockers had been plasticised But the bubble had just burst The Marlins drank the champagne People blamed it on The Curse Just ask someone in Boston How long it took to break The Curse of the Bambino With its annual heartache And every time it happens It just feels that much worse They say there’s always next year And that might be The Curse

An old photograph, it’s in your eyes The treble clef, the key, the ties Would there be any more of you? In the family line who played music too? Did you stray a little from the score? Did you ever try to add anything more? Did you ever try to make things up? Just little riffs & stuff? What kind of music did you play? The kind that makes hard times go away? Ancient tunes that were passed along? Was anybody writing songs? Did people think of you as odd? Did they think it came from the devil or G-d? Did they ever tell you to keep quiet? Did you suffer when you had to deny it? People probably didn’t play guitars There wouldn’t have been any popular stars Who’d come around, who you’d have heard There was no way to spread the word Nobody had a radio Record player or a stereo No Ipod and no tv No cassettes and no cds You had a violin and you had a bow How far away did you have to go? To get where no one else could hear So you could play it loud and clear? Did you have such a secret place Where you could go and know the Grace? A river bank or a favorite tree Somewhere you could just be free? As I go from town to town Small glimpses are all that I’ve found Would you recognize these sounds? Are they like the old songs handed down? When you used to sit & play Would everyone and everything go away? Was there anyone else who understood Anywhere in the neighborhood? Or anywhere else for miles around? The next little village, even the next town? Did you ever see the city 50 miles away? Did you ever get to hear an orchestra play? In the village market or the few little shops Could you get a new string if one ever popped? Your first violin, who gave it to you? Was it handed down, was it made for you? Or did you get to go and pick it out? In the local shops were Jews allowed? Did your parents have to sacrifice for years? Was it music to their ears? If we could just sit one night under the stars The same constellations, the very same Mars Not talk about neocons, or about czars All I want to do is pick the guitar You can tune up that fiddle & rosin the bow If you want we could give it a go I only really know 3 or 4 chords I slide this capo thing up the fingerboard I wonder who you’d be today Or I’d be back then and what we’d play A gypsy tune, a Russian waltz One of mine or something classical For now I’ll blow kisses, for now I send love And if you can listen from somewhere above I hope you can hear that it comes from a place An old photograph, a familiar face As I go from town to town Small glimpses are all that I’ve found Would you recognize these sounds? Are they like the old songs handed down?

Catherine’s boyfriend played saxophone - Catherine wanted a flute There was one in the window of the music store - that happened to be a real beaut But Mummy couldn’t afford it - this much Catherine knew Still, she stood there a few minutes dreaming - knowing it wouldn’t come true Christmas time was coming - and Catherine had the blues Her Mummy asked her what she wanted - Catherine didn’t tell the truth She knew there wasn’t the money - not even for one to rent The only thing Catherine really wanted - was to play an instrument Catherine cried for a month in her bedroom - when she had to quit the school band The woman who lived in the holler - heard about this secondhand And the goodness gathered within her - and fluttered like butterflies She in a vision released them - and she watched them take to the skies And on a very cold night in December - maybe the coldest night of the year The woman who lives in the holler - cried a few secret tears For the last few moments of glory - and the glories that had been before And the times it had been there to rescue her - she set her flute down by the door People whisper about her - the locals say she’s a witch Though she’d be the first to come help them - if they ever got stuck in a ditch ****check this The candles she lights at her altar - they burn as a gesture of love The kind they talk about in the churches - yet they know so little of It was one day just after Christmas - and Catherine wore her new hat Her mom brought her out to the holler - the woman was there with her cats Catherine had no idea - but someday maybe she would That what she would soon be receiving - was being given for a greater good So here’s to the future of music. - and here’s to the power of song And here’s a toast to the woman in the holler - for passing these things along The case was covered with stickers - and words.that this woman had scrawled From the magic places she’d been to - trinkets from her own Mardi Gras And it all meant nothing to Catherine - it wasn’t her story to tell She’ll have her own words and stickers - should she ever fall under the spell So it’s Catherine’s turn now to hold her - here’s hoping she’ll learn how to play Maybe she’ll drop by the holler - to visit this woman some day Maybe she’ll come with her boyfriend - the one who plays saxophone Maybe they’ll play for the woman - a few things they made up on their own So here’s to the sweet gift of music - here’s to the power of song And a toast to the woman in the holler - for passing these things along

It was the 15th of December 1968 Franklin Field in Philly The subject of debate: Did the Eagles’ fans boo Santa Because they thought that he was drunk? Because his costume was in tatters? Or because the team just stunk? The coach was Joe Kuharich He clearly had to go The homemade banners hanging up They all were saying so They hung him from the flagpole In effigy that day An airplane pulled a sign That told him where to go away It was the last game of the season The team would finish 2 and 12 The snow was really falling The cheerleaders dressed like elves Norm Snead threw interceptions The runners gained no ground If it wasn’t for the booing There wouldn’t have been a sound The gun went off at halftime But the field had too much snow To go on with the regularly Scheduled halftime show The guy who would play Santa Never even left his house He’d phoned a little earlier To say that he could not get out And there was Frank Olivo A 19 year old fan In his Uncle Charlie’s Santa suit With a fake beard in the stands Did someone from the Eagles Come & promise him applause? If he’d just run out on the field While the band played "Here Comes Santa Claus." There probably was some drinking If you measured the whole scene There were the usual bare chested guys With faces painted green By the time our Frank Olivo Had hit the end zone running The first of what would be a couple hundred Snowballs started coming One knocked off his glasses One knocked of his beard A couple of them made his Phony eyebrows disappear He gave the crowd the finger And stood there like a giant “You’ll all get nothing for Christmas” He yelled out in defiance In the safety of the tunnel He scooped snow out of his ears The Eagles marketing director Asked if he’d come back the next year Frank Olivo answered, “No, I don't think so Because next year it might be bottles If there isn’t any snow”

When I was a little feller Ping pong table in the cellar Every night just after dinner He used to let me be the winner The ones I could get over the net He’d pretend he couldn’t get Deliberately he’d hit them wide But only barely miss the side Everything he’d hit real soft He would turn it on & off But just to show me that he could He’d hit one almost through the wood My dad, he was the champion Me, I was his only son He taught me everything he knew And I’ve shown him a thing or two He played the ball with lots of spin Taught me how to serve like him I was eleven, maybe ten Starting to play a little better then Then I started talking trash Finally he’d met his match Sixteen, maybe seventeen Taut as the net that was between us He’d slam one & I’d slam one He’d slam one & I’d slam one He’d slam another, I’d slam another Back & forth, attacking each other It was spin and counter spin Neither could let the other win Things could never be the same When I learned to beat him at his game Now we play like gentlemen Volley back & forth again Neither of us keeping score We don’t need to anymore Now I don’t want to slam at all I don’t want him to have to chase the ball Let’s just keep this thing in play That’s the whole point anyway

Where the Rockies meet the Plains Towns rose up to meet the trains Frontier justice handed down Rawlins was that kind of town They’d hang somebody now & then Make some shoes out of their skin Put them up there on display Reminding folks crime didn’t pay Wyoming built a state pen here For the worst of men to spend their years Tom Horn had been the last to hang Before the shortstop Joseph Seng Now all my teammates, one by one And each of us a mother’s son Will follow to the gallows pole Lord have mercy on my soul The day that Warden Allston came He hung a picture he had framed Of Connie Mack, his eyes ablaze Sitting with his World Champ A’s He ordered balls & bats & gloves To form a prison baseball club Teams from all across the west Would testify we were the best Practice in the prison yard Concrete diamond, pocked and scarred I only lived to crush that ball Somewhere far beyond the walls To places I won’t ever see Go on ball, you go for me Give those lawmen all the drop Keep on rolling, never stop On game days homemade banners hung The streets were full, the bells were rung The Carbon County Volunteer Band Played for people in the stands Dark blue flannels trimmed with white They fit just fine, baggy or tight Compared to wearing prison blues They kept us off the working crews 1911, 1912 Trophies on the warden’s shelf We went 39 & 6 Against a clock that always ticks The warden bet on us to win So did the judge, the two were friends Our executions would be stayed Depending on how well we played Yesterday I struck out twice Lay all night on a bed of ice The warden called me in this morn Asked me for my uniform Offered me a cigarette Told me that my date’s been set Tomorrow, should the sun still rise I would be the most surprised This here 5 x 7 cell At the old Crossbar Hotel I’ll leave things just the way they are The photographs, the baseball cards Whoever has to take them down There’s one of me out on the mound Send it to my Mama, please And say I died from some disease

The Unreliable Taxi Company, call him if you want It’s just Bob & his cab is probably sitting out in front Of one of the local taverns in a little Michigan town But The Unreliable Taxi Company might not want to be found The Unreliable Taxi might take off Saturday night Even if he plans on working & you never know, he might But not if there’s a poker game or something on tv You’ll have to find another way to where you want to be If you go out drinking thinking Bob’ll take you home Be prepared ‘cause every now & then he’ll leave you on your own You can either walk back or stay right where you are Until he can come & take you, or drive you to your car The Unreliable Taxi parked in a dark & quiet place It’ll be a couple of hours before Bob can show his face He’ll be driving in the morning, he’ll be glad to take you then It’ll be a couple of hours - it’s hard to say just when The Unreliable Taxi Company, call him if you will He’s never had an answering machine & he surely never will Maybe you’d be better off to get yourself a bike The Unreliable Taxi, you can call him if you like But The Unreliable Taxi Company might not answer his phone Even sometimes when he’s only sitting around at home Maybe you can reach him - he might even show He might even be on time - it’s something you don’t know The Unreliable Taxi Company sleeping at the wheel No panic to the locals, it’s really no big deal Even when it’s noon & his cab is still out front Nobody wants to wake him, you can try it if you want The Unreliable Taxi, you see him around town You might even see him driving somebody around If he needs the money & if he isn’t drunk If he hasn’t locked his only set of keys inside his trunk

In the Sparks Brothers Circus They smoked only cheap cigars A two bit traveling circus. 10 to 15 railroad cars With a not so high high wire And some leaks around the tent Educated sea lions And four or five elephants In the Clinch River Valley A little mining town Not too far from Kingsport There's no one still around That can tell it like it happened And just stick to the facts Not get mixed up with legends Or start filling in the cracks Red was Mary's handler They'd hired him that day He'd rode in on a box car And he just sort of stayed He got a job as janitor At the Riverside Hotel Until the circus came to town He bid everyone farewell He knew nothing about elephants But what was there to know? They were big, they were dumb And they walked kind of slow They had trunks for grabbing peanuts And to stuff them in their mouths He figured that was pretty much all You need to know about 'em So they handed Red a stick For the afternoon parade Only once did he whack Mary It was his only mistake She wrapped her trunk around him Threw him to the ground Stepped upon his head There were children all around Now contrary to the rumors She was never tried She never was convicted Of any homicide She never went to prison No one sentenced her to hang Like the storytellers told it And the singers often sang It was front page in the papers From Statesville to Little Rock From barbershops to filling stations Mary was the talk Sparks Brothers Circus They just couldn’t be going around With such an unpredictable creature They would have to put her down It's said they fired bullets But it was too small a gun They tried some electricity But she wasn’t even stunned It was all done in the spirit of Good clean family fun In the entertainment business You give the people what they want They shipped Mary in a railcar To Erwin, Tennessee They advertised a hanging 3000 came to see The ringleader announced It would be in the railroad yard When the matinee was over And there'd be no extra charge They left her hanging half an hour Till somebody got her down The people got their money's worth Pity the poor clowns Who weren’t really smiling When they dumped her in a grave That had been dug by a steam shovel And was as big as a cave The town won’t put a marker Above where Mary lies They don’t want the attention Or lawsuits to arise She never went to prison No court sentenced her to hang Like some storytellers told it And some singers often sang In the Sparks Brothers Circus They smoked only cheap cigars A two bit traveling circus 10 to 15 railroad cars

The man who blew kisses stood out in the crowd He wasn’t so tall & he wasn’t loud I couldn’t tell you how he was dressed But of everyone there I remember him best The man who blew kisses was simple & free He never considered how people might see him He walked on the water & swam through the air No trepidation & without a care The man who blew kisses lives in a home He isn’t allowed to go out on his own Wherever they take him he’s happy to go He loves everybody & lets them all know The man who blew kisses, blew them at me It tickled my heart & it buckled my knee It made my voice crack & it righted all wrongs I blew kisses back at the end of the songs The man who blew kisses in front of the stage Knew nothing of jealousy, nothing of rage Nothing of prejudice, nothing of shame He’d never been broken, never been tamed The man who blew kisses, he misses some things But he was catching my drift, he had air in his wings His head was a’ rocking, he was clapping his hands He was stomping his feet, he was doing a dance The man who blew kisses eats tulips for lunch And probably rainbows but that’s just a hunch Sunshine & pixie dust mixed in his punch Daisies for breakfast he eats by the bunch The man who blew kisses will blow them at you He blows them at anyone, no matter who And I thought to myself in the middle of all this That the song I was singing was but a kiss

In beginning...G-d created the Heavens and the Earth. And the Earth was without form and void and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the spirit of G-d was moving across the face of the waters. It’s an oral history, that was handed down, father to son, word of mouth, from Adam to Seth, Seth to Enos, Enos to Canaan. For 40 generations...a growing changing story, handed down, word of mouth, father to son. ‘Til Moses gets it down on lamb skin, but lamb skins wear out...need to be recopied. So you have copies of copies of copies of copies of copies of copies of an oral history, passed down through forty generations... From Hebrew it’s translated to Arabic, from Arabic to Greek, from Greek to Latin, from Latin to Russian, from Russian to German, from German to an old form of English that you could not read. Through 400 years of evolution of the English language...the book we have today...which is.... a translation of a translation of a translation of a translation of a translation of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of an oral history, passed down through 40 generations... You can’t put a grocery list through that many translations, copies, and retellings and not get some big changes to the dinner menu when the kids make it back from EarthFare. And yet people are killing each other over this written word. Here’s a tip: if you’re killing somebody in the name of G-d, you’re missing the message.

Liar liar, pants on fire See you squirm, see you perspire Not a word you say is true There’s never been one out of you Smoke & mirrors, bait and switch You and your friends are getting rich Picking pockets, pulling strings And other more despicable things Liar Liar, pants on fire Preaching only to the choir Photo op in front of the steeple How did you manage to fool these people? Talk the lingo, dress the part Even put your hand on your heart Bomber jacket, emperor’s clothes You can’t even reach the end of your nose Liar liar, pants on fire Chain of command doesn’t get any higher Orders come down from the top Punish the guy who pushes the mop Throw away the key and forget about bail The likes of you ought to rot in jail Guilty! Guilty of the highest crimes And the lowest ones at the very same time Liar liar, pants on fire Teleprompter, hidden wire Who’s this G-d that speaks to you Who would authorize the things you do? Bend the rules, twist the facts Make excuses, cover your tracks Why won’t you let anybody see The flag-draped coffins on tv? Liar liar, been found out Whistleblowers talked about How you classify & cook the books For the benefit of a bunch of crooks

There was one certain girl I was hoping to meet Would have asked her to dance but for my two left feet She wasn’t sitting with anyone else I was just sitting there all by myself I said I didn’t dance, I have two left feet To this other girl, standing over me in my seat Besides it wasn’t really my kind of beat And this wasn’t the girl I was hoping to meet I wasn’t attracted, not on first glance She wouldn’t go away, I didn’t want to dance She lifted me up to my two left feet My eyes went to the girl I was hoping to meet I was thinking I could make a break for the door But she pulled me out there onto the dance floor The band started in on an old fashioned waltz She didn’t lead so I did by default It was awkward enough, those very first steps I stepped on her right toes and then on her left Evading her eyes I tried to be discreet Keeping tabs on the girl I was hoping to meet Her hand on my waist made me relax She moved it up to the small of my back Touching a nerve, I shot her a glance She said “I thought you told me you couldn’t dance She pointed down at my right foot Going to all the right places, wherever I’d put it She followed me when I spun her around And when I dipped her all the way down The way her hair fell back, and hung to the floor The way we locked eyes then, and forevermore The thing about beauty, and I don’t know why Sometimes you don’t see it ‘till it pokes you in the eye The one song ended & another began We exchanged names and applauded the band I guess I never did let go of her hand For the next couple hours we danced & we danced Now we go out dancing every Saturday night She dresses up and she’s quite a sight This was the girl I didn’t want to meet But that was the guy with two left feet

He was carrying a briefcase When he stepped aboard the plane Northwest 305 from Portland On the tarmac in the rain Dressed in loafers & a dark suit Underneath an overcoat A white shirt & a black tie That was loose around the throat It was Thanksgiving eve Back in 1971 He had on a pair of sunglasses There wasn’t any sun He used the name Dan Cooper When he paid for the flight That was going to Seattle On that cold and nasty night They taxied to the runway And then took to the sky Cooper let a little Bit of time go by Before he called the flight attendant And told her to stay calm But that inside his briefcase He said he had a bomb Two hundred thousand dollars In 20 dollar bills A plane, a crew, some parachutes & No one would get killed They landed in Seattle The authorities complied All the passengers were let off The crew remained inside The plane took off for Portland Just Cooper & the crew It wasn’t quite an hour When he bid them all adieu But first he tipped each one of them Two thousand bucks apiece He was such a nice man They later told the police Out a little service doorway In the rear of the plane Cooper jumped into the darkness Into the freezing rain They say that with the windchill It was 69 below Not much chance that he’d survive But if he did where did he go? Some guy who lived in Oregon By the name of DB Cooper Was arrested and interrogated By a couple of state troopers It wasn’t him who did it The lawmen had no luck But the papers ran the story The name DB Cooper stuck It was on a family picnic 8 or 9 years later Six thousand muddy dollars Found by a 2nd grader On the banks of the Columbia Which would’ve been on his route Authorities confirmed That it was part of Cooper’s loot Whoever DB Cooper was Today is still a mystery The only unsolved skyjacking In aviation history No one’s ever tried to claim The very large reward No one’s ever seen him since He bailed out the door Divers search the river Every summer still For an article of clothing Or a twenty dollar bill A briefcase or a wallet With some kind of ID To determine who this DB Cooper Might actually be