Have you been to jail for justice?

“A song by Anne Feeney dedicated to all activists who have been arrested while they were fighting for justice, and especially to: the Haymarket Martyrs, Dr. King, George Carlin, Mumia Abu-Jamal, Carlos from Genoa, all who have been arrested in the Battle of Seattle, Cindy Sheehan, the Belgrade 6, all who have been arrested in the Greek riots and many others.”

Watch It Fall (Texas this week)


Billy Strings

Well, it’s not so easy now
Though it never was back then
We still can’t seem to work this out
But you can still pretend
And these tattered walls and burning bridges
Quickly start to fall
How long until there’s nothing left at all?

I’ve been to California, man
I’ve seen them city lights
Been stranded in the desert
Scorching days and freezing nights
And I’ll never understand
Why people try to walk so tall
How long until there’s nothing left at all?

Don’t you love what you got used to?
When we used to feel so free
Won’t you wait a while in silence, love
Watch it fall with me

Well, the old men said the great Big Apple’s
Rotten to the core
With Wall Street skimming from the till
While no one minds the store
And how could someone get so low
In a building so damn tall?
How long until there’s nothing left at all?
While chunks the size of Delaware
Are falling off the poles
Our heads are buried in the sand
Our leaders dug the hole
Like junkies hooked on fossil fuel
Headin’ for withdrawal
How long until there’s nothing left at all?

Don’t you love what you got used to?
When we used to feel so free
Come and wait a while in silence, love
And watch it fall with me
Now the answers in our heads
To the questions that were asked
It boils up from underground
And leads us to the past
To a place that’s long forgotten
When we had enough for all
How long until there’s nothing left at all?

Don’t you love what you got used to?
When we try to make our stand
The hourglass is growing empty now
Just to leave a pile of sand (watch it fall)

You’re Dead

Hear the unloved weeping like rain
Guard your sleep from the sound of their pain

1966, Norma Tanega – You’re Dead

Don’t sing if you want to live long
They have no use for your song
You’re dead, you’re dead, you’re dead
You’re dead and outta this world

You’ll never get a second chance
Plan all your moves in advance
Stay dead, stay dead, stay dead
Stay dead and outta this world

Run fast don’t stand in the sun
There’s too much work to be done
You’re down, you’re down, you’re down
Youre down and outta this world

Don’t ever talk with your eyes
Be sure that you compromise
You’re dead, you’re dead, you’re dead
You’re dead and outta this world

Hear the unloved weeping like rain
Guard your sleep from the sound of their pain
Long gone, long gone, long gone
Long gone and outta this…

Your Flag Decal Won’t Get You Into Heaven Anymore

RIP John Prine

While digesting Reader’s Digest in the back of a dirty book store
A plastic flag, with gum on the back fell out on the floor
Well, I picked it up and I ran outside, slapped it on my window shield
And if I could see old Betsy Ross I’d tell her how good I feel

But your flag decal won’t get you into Heaven anymore
They’re already overcrowded from your dirty little war
Now Jesus don’t like killin’, no matter what the reason’s for
And your flag decal won’t get you into Heaven anymore

Well, I went to the bank this morning and the cashier he said to me
“If you join the Christmas club we’ll give you ten of them flags for free”
Well, I didn’t mess around a bit, I took him up on what he said
And I stuck them stickers all over my car and one on my wife’s forehead

But your flag decal won’t get you into Heaven anymore
They’re already overcrowded from your dirty little war
Now Jesus don’t like killin’, no matter what the reason’s for
And your flag decal won’t get you into Heaven anymore

Well, I got my window shield so filled with flags I couldn’t see
So, I ran the car upside a curb and right into a tree
By the time they got a doctor down I was already dead
And I’ll never understand why the man standing in the pearly gates said

“But your flag decal won’t get you into Heaven anymore
We’re already overcrowded from your dirty little war”
“Now Jesus don’t like killin’, no matter what the reason’s for
And your flag decal won’t get you into Heaven anymore”

Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios

RIP John Prine

Sam Stone came home,
To the wife and family
After serving in the conflict overseas.
And the time that he served,
Had shattered all his nerves,
And left a little shrapnel in his knees.
But the morhpine eased the pain,
And the grass grew round his brain,
And gave him all the confidence he lacked,
With a purple heart and a monkey on his back.

There’s a hole in daddy’s arm where all the money goes,
Jesus Christ died for nothin I suppose.
Little pitchers have big ears,
Don’t stop to count the years,
Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios.

Sam Stone’s welcome home
Didn’t last too long.
He went to work when he’d spent his last dime
And soon he took to stealing
When he got that empty feeling
For a hundred dollar habit without overtime.
And the gold roared through his veins
Like a thousand railroad trains,
And eased his mind in the hours that he chose,
While the kids ran around wearin’ other peoples’ clothes…

There’s a hole in daddy’s arm where all the money goes,
Jesus Christ died for nothin I suppose.
Little pitchers have big ears,
Don’t stop to count the years,
Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios.

Sam Stone was alone
When he popped his last balloon,
Climbing walls while sitting in a chair.
Well, he played his last request,
While the room smelled just like death,
With an overdose hovering in the air.
But life had lost it’s fun,
There was nothing to be done,
But trade his house that he bought on the GI bill,
For a flag-draped casket on a local hero’s hill.

There’s a hole in daddy’s arm where all the money goes,
Jesus Christ died for nothin I suppose.
Little pitchers have big ears,
Don’t stop to count the years,
Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios.

Fascists Eat Donuts

From 2003, Make these donuts with extra grease. This batch is for the chief of police.

Does anyone remember a tune from the early 80’s that was a lot of guitars strumming a monotonous tonal thing for a long time, and then, just once, lyrics, shouted, “Make these donuts with extra grease. This batch is for the chief of police!” and then guitars again for a long time?

Found it:

This seems relevant today.