1. Three-quarter mile, single file, the whole herd’s headed higher than heaven.  I’m cold chasing on eggs and bacon, off a week’s worth of eleven to sevens.  The big bear go where the splotches of snow turn dry-ass gray grass green.  With heaven hard frozen and the valley floor flooding, beauty comes in between.  Where are you?  It’s me and Jerry, Dirt and Sheri, we’re hanging by the neck of the Goose.  It’s hard to find a tie that binds you tighter than cutting loose.  Shaney comes in with a shit-eating grin. She’s back from a break in the alley.  She tried to stay and shake it but she ain’t gonna make it, ‘cause they mostly play Mustang Sally.  Where are you?  Well the whole joint’s jumping but I’m drunk, I’m slumped in the darkest part of the place.  I came for play but now I’m just praying I can leave without loosing face.  There ain’t no harm in the charm of the morning, but the nighttime tells the truth.  Since you left I never felt so far from finding a groove.  Where are you?


2. I reckon St. Valentine’s Day ain’t the best time to say we’re through, but I never kept nothing from you.  Your hazelnut heart.  My crow bar could have cut it, but I held a hammer.  I swung in a hurry.  Now I sit and worry.  Will I weep for you all winter?  Or forever sit here and shiver after I splinter?  A door is a wore-out metaphor, but I bloodied my knuckles ten times before you heard my pounding.  The silence surrounding my singing never was golden.  I’ve been thinking about her.  I wish you didn’t know who I mean.  But when I found a hair of yours on my sleeve, it struck me as a foreign thing.  They’ll say we drifted apart.  I’ll say I sank to the bottom of a big whiskey river.  Where this disbeliever flashes with fever.  Will I ever find my center?  Or will this chatter even matter after I splinter?  I’ve been held under before.  But water is a wasted repentance.  My sentence is drowning  The silence surrounding my singing never was golden.   I reckon St. Valentine’s Day ain’t the best time to say we’re through, but I never kept nothing but love from you, and I don’t know what else I can do.


3. I’m gonna be like you.  I’m gonna get a tattoo.  I’ll shave my head.  I’ll take her to bed.  I’ll be 21 come July and my pool game will be good enough by then.  Leaning on my cue with a pint of microbrew, I’m going to hang around and close down the Molly Brown  I’ll get one of those girls whose belly shows.  The more belly there is, the better my chances.  She won’t see the fear in my eyes, cause I’ll hide behind my wrap-around Oakleys.  Then she’ll ride home with me in my sport utility.  Is that your Malamute?  Oh, he’s so cute.  We’re gonna pull some bongs.  I’ll play her some songs.  Nothing gets that salad tossed like a heavy metal ballad.  We’ll both be so drunk and high that I won’t be nervous and she won’t know I’m a virgin.  Now I’m like you.  I got a tattoo.  I shaved my head.  I took her to bed.  But it’s not my fault that we got caught.  She said she was on the pill.  Now I’m on the windowsill.  I’m hardly hanging on, but my hands are getting stronger.


4. I want to join the Communist Party.  I think they are super cool.  I heard they get free red tee shirts.  I’ve already got my combat boots.  Justice joined the Communist Party.  With friends like him you’re never in need.  He can get the cleanest of acid.  He can get the greenest of weed.  Jesus joined the Communist Party.  That should bring them in in droves.  He can cure the multitude’s munchies with a few fish and a couple of loaves.  Jezebel joined the Communist Party.  She has got a perfect ass.  She believes in sharing freely with every comrade who makes a pass.  So I want to join the Communist Party.  I think they are superfly.  Sign me up for my free red tee shirt.  Send my prints to the FBI. 


5. I used to hold her hand while we walked across the Gardiner river bridge.  Them days are over.  I used to understand one or two things.  It seems like I was a lover.  Where oh where have I gone?  The river’s turned to brown.  She runs the mountain out of town and drops her down in New Orleans.  Listen to that sound.  But lookout, friend, I’ve seen her suck two good men down and wash them clean.  Where oh where have they gone?  The river’s turned to dust.  I tell you what, she must get sick sometimes of always running.  Where does that leave us?  In between a bad dream and if enraptured we can bring a second coming.  Where oh where have we gone?  We got close.  I’ve been trying not to say so, but this goes out to all those who’ve lost forever.  I used to undergo a trial or two but at least I knew the refuge lies on the shallow side of the river.  Where oh where have I gone?


6. I don’t know about love.  I know about not love.  I don’t know about love, but this not love I ‘bout had enough of.  I don’t know about love.  I know not.  I don’t know about true.  I know about not true.  I don’t know about true, but this not true ain’t the best you can do.  I don’t know about true.  I know not.  I don’t know about free.  I know about not free.  I don’t know about free, but this not free’s about got the best of me.  I don’t know about free.  I know not.  I don’t know about you, but I’m getting restless.  I don’t know about you, but I bet I’m about to get to.  I don’t know about you.  I know not.


7. Here’s to the men I sing of in this song.  I hope they live a long, long time.  My friend Bayard, he fights the power.  He don’t need to eat any bleached wheat flour.  He don’t need to drink off no cow’s tit.  He’ll take a job about a week and then up and quit.  If a thing’s got strings then Bayard can pick it.  He can gut an elk in a New York minute.  He can tan a hide.  He can grow beans.  He ain’t a man of money he’s a man of means.  Here’s to the men…  My friend David, he takes action.  He infects the people with a powerful passion.  He’s an active agent of the forces of love.  When he heard I used Drano, he stoned my truck.  He’ll take you in.  He’ll sit you down.  He’ll smoke you out.  He’ll play you Amy Goodman from Democracy Now.  Did you read the thing he gave you about the Buffalo Nation and Nader’s latest lecture on globalization?  Here’s to the men…  My friend Sean, he robs the man.  He can milk a job like nobody can.  The only way to elevate your hourly wage is to squeeze four hours in an eight-hour day.  Looking out for the queen and her hired henchmen, me and Sean are working like pensioned Frenchmen.  The only harm done is reducing the profits of a couple fat cats with the deepest of pockets.  Here’s to the men…  My friend J. Todd brought gay to Gardiner.  I can’t think of anything could be much harder than coming out in a town so small and backward.  A lot of people wouldn’t even speak to him after.  When his boss found out he cut him loose, but a bunch of kind brothers wouldn’t go to the Goose.  So he got hired back and it helped a lot of men who couldn’t come out first, but they could follow him.  Here’s to the men I sing of in this song.  I hope they live a long, long time.


8. Just because you want to kiss her, that don’t mean that leaving her was wrong.  When it gets how it can get, it’s splits, man.  It’s quits.  It’s get gone.  Just because you want to touch her, that don’t mean you still need her around.  When you took all you can take, make that break, man, before you break down.  Be prepared to cry and want to die.  God knows you tried, but it’s a lie that good things come to those who wait.  Be prepared to hurt, and what’s worse is it gets worse before it’s better.  But better now before too late.  Her face will flash before your eyes.  Your heart will crash a thousand times, man.  I can’t tell you that it won’t.  You’ll smell her skin.  I can’t pretend that it won’t happen.  But you’re better to do it now before you don’t.  And just because you still miss her, that don’t mean you’ll never love again.  Just when you give up, you’ll find love or if not love some sin to fall in.


9. Morning came early this morning.  I missed my plane.  I could hear it going over my bed while the engines in my brain sang “this makes you look stupid to some people who you don’t like to look stupid to.”  Like my boss, he’s so unforgiving.  But that’s ok, I’ll always find some way to make a living.  He ain’t the world’s only boss.  And the highly paid consultant trainer.  The board decided to retain her to teach me how to trick you into thinking that the sticker on my bumper is the answer.  But I don’t care if I look stupid to them.  I care for you.


10. Something about selling myself leaves me uneasy.  Something about please, please, please.  Cold feet run toward seller’s remorse.  Like an old man who sues for divorce, I come home. I don’t know what to do.  At the Two Bit Saloon last Friday night, a drunk man gave me sober advice.  Said it’s half of your waking daylight life.  No matter what you’re paid, you pay the price.  Well it looks like this time, it looks like this time I’m sold.  Well it looks like this time I’m finally sold.  Flippant?  Well yes I guess.  But is this an interview or a personality test?  The way I see, there’s two ways to be – tongue in cheek or kissing ass.  I mean give me a chance.  You know I’ll do my best.  Well yes, I wish I’d been more sincere.  But if that’s all you wanted all you had to do was take me out for a couple of beers.  I mean buy me a drink.  I’ll tell you not only what I think, but what you don’t want to hear.  Like it’s my time.  It’s my price.  It’s half of my everloving daylight life.  So if I can’t love it or hover above it then take that job and… Well if I can’t love it or hover above it… But I took that job and I went prowling around trying to bend my brain around this town.  Like this time I’m sold.  I went prowling around trying to bend my brain on forty-eight ounces of Blackfoot, a couple of Pabst at Millers, a burger and a beer at the Bag.  I wound up down at Jester’s with some tweakers who were registering to vote to fight the smoking ban.  Well something about selling myself leaves me uneasy.  Something about please, please.  But the fat cats keep prowling around, and I’m going to tear some buildings down.  I’m going to squeeze till there’s blood in the streets of this turnip town.  I’m going to squeeze until there’s love


11. When there ain’t nobody home, it don’t matter if you’re together or if you’re alone.  You try to hang on.  When you love somebody less, it don’t matter if you hold it or if you confess.  You got nothing left.  When you’re out here on your own, you’ll start thinking crazy about going home.  But that’s wrong.  I knew when I said I was leaving, it was a painful prospect to prove.  But the only part of me that’s still grieving is you.  When there ain’t nobody home, and you ain’t got the gumption to pick up the phone, you’re already gone.  When you love somebody new, it don’t matter if it’s fiction or if it feels true.  You got nothing to lose.