Cripple and His Voice

Cripple, cripple
Sings in the sun
Underneath a peach tree
Dawn, it's a beautiful image

Cripple, cripple
A starfish said he sang well
Birdgulls fly near him
His charm is unquestionable
Cripple, cripple
Searching for his voice in the skies

Soon the night shall fall
Birdgulls shall die
Fly no more, they will
Cripple, cripple
Hoping for someone to listen to him sing...
Hoping for someone in the after-life
Oh such sorrow
Cripple, cripple
Singing underneath a peach tree
In his garden, in his garden

My Brother of Jazz

I think I once had a brother
I do not recall having one
Maybe he was just imaginary, and the songs I heard were nothing more than our mother going wild after crummy sex
Maybe he was a Jazz musician
Or maybe he died in Chicago
Chicago, oh what a town
Of music, of joy
Brother liked Jazz
Brother liked the Blues
Brother liked women with no shoes
Brother liked crummy poems, such as this one
But brother was not real
And so he died the moment he was born
Perhaps he was a Jazz musician
Or a baby with no hair
But a brother he was to me

The Blues of the French

His father was a street wasted junkie
His mother a whore without any teeth
In Memphis he played the blues
And Booker T listened to him every Friday, in a crummy bar, in a crummy street
The police wanted to throw him in jail
Elvis wanted to slit his throat open
But the town of Memphis protected him
In love, and drugs that fucked his inner-self
Or whatever was left of his brain
Jake sang, Elwood sang
The French guy only played the blues
Even his eyes were blue
Even his nails were blue
What a wasted life, what a dying bastard
For so long he played, for so long he burned in self inflicted torment
'Till finally came the day
In which he complicated the blues
And pissed all over his father's face
Mother screamed, mother was a whore
So why the fuck do we care for this story?

Woodstock Blues

Cowboys and assholes were running with the wind
For your hair, for you my sister of blood
Down by the river banks, you washed your hair with a nobody as company
Half of the assholes were mad, the other half killed themselves
The blazzing sun is a warrior, the protector of the royal beuty
Or whatever that must mean

Sister why won't we go back home?
To hear something more than vultures in the middle of the confusion
The sun rises and goes down with your body next to mine
It get's stranger every day

Becky, Woodstock is dead
We could be the last one's standing with simple lyrics
And we fell alone, perhaps

With a flower in your hair, your voice won't be in vain
Darling, let's go back home
To where guitars can sound freely in the afternoon wind
And you, my sister
Be my love, my right-arm, my singer of the Woodstock blues