Tracklist
From the liner notes:
see the little boy with
rosy cheeks and twinklin’ eyes
who just kissed the sun
good mornin’?
well, he’s a dandy —
chocolate candy —
good brandy —
and there was a time
when he was young —
and his songs were sung —
and each rung of the ladder
he clung to with such
a great clatter
it sounded like tarzan
swingin’ thru the trees —
when was that – yesterday?
hell no — tomorrow —
for this man has no time
for yesterdays —
except now and then
for a few precious moments
to remember things
as they were once
cause
up
down
high
low
easy
hard
in
out —
there’s words to write —
and songs to sing —
and people waitin’
in towns and cities
like houston —
and st. louis —
and detroit —
there’s folsom prison —
and san quentin prison —
and caged dead men
waitin’ to be brought back
to life again by the sound
of his truth —
even if it is only
for a couple of hours —
there’s the hollywood bowl —
and the london palladium —
and hell, i’m gonna ask him
if we can do a live album
on the moon next —
betcha we go too —
cause history’s bein’ made
and this man’s a part of it —
he’s headstrong —
stubborn as a damn missouri mule —
he’s a cobblestone —
a microphone —
a baritone that sings
lower than a saxophone —
hell he even sings
lower than a trombone —
if you don’t believe he’s got
a memory like an elephant —
ask his manager —
daniel boone —
a sand dune with
too many grains to count —
a silver spoon —
a balloon
with all the colors
of the rainbow —
he’s a fox —
always about one bound
ahead of the hound —
a woodcutter —
bread and butter
to multitudes of people
he’s a stud horse —
a race horse —
a war horse —
a force as strong
as the mississippi river
ills—
pills —
bills —
booze —
blues —
good and bad —
right and wrong —
they came —
and now they’re gone —
once he set up another —
this man can rhyme —
the tick of time —
the edge of pain —
the what of sane —
but what of this man
who can rhyme
the tick of time —
the edge of pain —
the what of sane —
and the insane —
and can reach inside your brain
and conquer it
and if he were ordained
to do so with his sword
of words —
yes what of this man
and his records
cry the people
who do not understand
that they should speak
not of this man and his records —
but instead they should speak
of this man and his music —
and do not sing
of the pawnee or cherokee
they say to him —
for no one sings of indians
now-a-days —
no one sings of indians you say —
ask the spirit of ira hayes
if no one sings of indians –
ask him also of this man
who stands so tall and proud
because of the blood of indian
flowing through his veins —
you know what he is?
he’s arkansas —
and black dirt —
and hot sun —
and wet rain —
and cold wind —
and sweat —
and cotton —
and blistered hands
over blistered hands —
and being hungry —
and the sound of a train
goin’ somewhere —
and dreams —
bet there’s rich folks eatin’
in a fancy dining car
they’re probably
drinkin’ coffee
and smokin’ big cigars —
and more dreams —
and more dreams —
and more dreams —
and God —
and what matters?
the sunlight all bright
and yellow and hot
that makes things grow
like big oak trees —
and onions
and watermelons
all red and ripe and juicy —
and white cotton —
and children —
clouds —
they’re something
he lays under —
and dreams under —
grass—
that’s something
warm and green
that he walks barefoot in —
and reaches down and pulls up
whole handfuls of
to smell the sweet juice —
dogs —
they’re to hunt with —
and lick his face —
and kick in the butt
now and then —
crows—
they’re to shoot —
and make up songs about —
and turn loose —
mountains—
they’re to climb
even though he can’t always
see the tops of ‘em—
and God knows
he’s climbed enough of ‘em—
but seems like
there’s always one
more to go —
dirt—
that’s something he digs in
and plows in and plants in
and feels and remembers
and gives thanks to
as he silently blesses it
for having sustained him —
water —
that’s something fresh and cold
and good to drink and wade in
and swim in and fish in
and chunk rocks in
and pee in
when he was a little boy —
friends —
they’re something to cuss at —
and argue with —
and plan with —
and dream with —
and love and protect —
for he takes the seed of a man —
plants it in the black earth
of his mind —
waters it with his tears —
nourishes it with his love
and shines on it with his laughter
until it becomes a part of him —
hell, he planted me —
people—
they’re what makes his world go round —
in boots and shoes and barefoot —
in tuxedos and overalls
and furs and calico dresses —
both the old and the young —
with stocks and bond dollars —
and butter and egg nickels —
in a hundred above and ten below —
in grand theatres and can as tents—
they come to see him
his wife —
wow —
she’s someone to cherish —
and he couldn’t hide
the way he feels about her
if he tried —
cause when he looks at her
the shine in his eyes’ll light up
a christmas tree —
she’s his summer —
his fall —
his all —
his spring —
his everything —
his woman —
his lover —
his friend
the beginning and the end —
betcha it’s a boy —
and the blind beggar cried out —
please little boy
don’t take my money —
but he kicked the tin cup
from his hands
and reaching down gently
picked up the coins
that had fallen to the ground
and held them
in the warm of his hand
and breathed the breath
of life into them —
and the coins became
beautiful little jewish
butterfly children who kissed him
upon his lips
with their rainbow powered wings
and flew away
over the barbed wire —
for he knew the beggar’s name
was adolph —
and he did not —
give a damn that he cried now —
for he has a way of looking
inside of people —
this little boy —
and what else is he
you ask
of me —
we’ll i’ll tell you —
he’s a young colt —
a revolt —
a thunderbolt —
he’s the north pole —
the south pole —
spun gold —
he’s a chocolate eclair —
a grizzly bear —
he’s gonna be a millionaire —
he’s the first winter snowflake —
a real handshake —
a texas beefsteak —
a heartache —
he’s daybreak —
he’s a buttermilk pancake
with yellow butter
and gold maple syrup—
he’s a tortilla —
a hot pepper
most of the time —
a tamale —
a golly —
he’s a dusty bottle of french wine —
a big hunk of norwegian cheese —
a whole loaf of
hot fresh baked bread —
a sizzling slice of pizza
with anchovies and mushrooms
and peppers —
he’s a coconut
with the words
pouring out of him
like the fresh milk
when you crack it open —
he’s a donut all fresh and hot —
he’s a kaleidoscope —
a tightrope —
hope —
he’s a workshop —
a strawberry lollipop —
a big G guitar chord —
he’s unexplored —
a bubblin’ brook —
he’s a story book —
yes, but what if when he is old
and his hair is quite white —
will he then still be
as a little boy?
yes —
and he will wear the cloak
of this years as if it were
woven with golden threads —
and velvet reds —
and precious stones —
and oh, yes —
a hank of hair
and a rag and a bone —
for he is, i am sure, a peasant at heart —
always was from the start
and always will be —
that is, in the times
when he is not busy
being the king —
and making proclamations
throughout the land
black russian caviar
and roast sucklin’ pig
and royal feasts
are all very well indeed —
but betcha fried steak —
and chocolate pie —
and black eye peas
are fine for him —
or even a hamburger —
listen—
what are those screams,
cry the baby vultures
as they flap their arms
in terror
that little birds —
that is nothing but
the sweet lady of life
trying to get
her breathing back —
for i am
sure he does cuddle her
too hard sometimes —
oh, my God, screamed the masses —
i felt the ground
tremble and shake —
it’s an earthquake —
a tornado —
a hurricane —
a monsoon —
a typhoon —
is it the end of the world?
nope —
it’s just a little boy
with rosy cheeks
and twinklin’ eyes
who just kissed the sun
good morning —
see him?
well he is my brother —
least i wish he was—
cause, goddam, what a man —
he is —
– Bob Johnston