Don’t Smoke in Bed
(w. robinson)

She left a note on his dresser
And her old wedding ring
With these few goodbye words
That now I sing
Goodbye old sleepy head
I’m packing you in like I said
Take care of everything
I’m leaving my wedding ring

Don’t look for me
I’ll get ahead
And remember darling
Don’t smoke in bed

A Little Bit of Lace
--Jerome Kern (1904)

A dainty bit of lace, fixed the proper place,
Can call a man’s attention to a pretty face,
And collars peekaboo a lot of damage do,
When willful eyes will wander where they ought not to.

But after all is said and done there’s nothing more
disasterous to a man than pangene or tussor,
or silk of every kind when pretty maidens think
upon its many million possibilities.

So take care of pretty maids that wear
Silks stockings and silk...never mind, silk things of every kind.
They may seem as mild as buttermilk,
But all the girls are sold on a little bit of silk.

Just give him time. He will claim those as well.

The Jerome Kern song is probably PD, so if Bob ever sings it he will for sure claim it.

A Little Taste
--Dave Frishberg

A little taste might hit the spot,
A little taste might help a lot,
It may be nice, it may be not,
In my condition, this is a risky proposition.

A little taste might pave the way,
It has been known to save the day,
One little taste might be OK,
It’s a sedation, good for a sticky situation.

Why not spare myself a little pain? (it couldn't hurt)
I left my appetite out in the rain (without a shirt).
Who says self denial’s all that great? (sure wasn’t me),
‘Cause I found it often pays to dissipate 
(One little taste could make a whole lot of difference).

Who knows? Maybe it could ease the bite (it never ends)
And one taste could help me make it through the night (good evening friends).
Why let good intentions get my goat (and bring me down)?
When I know a great potential antidote 
(One little taste could make a whole lot of difference).

A little taste might break the ice,
And make the nasty seem so nice,
One little taste just once or twice,
It’s an enhancer, one little taste could be the answer.

And so it shouldn’t be a total waste,
Waiter, I think I’ll have a little taste (put it on his tab).

Do It
--Jesse Winchester

If the wheel is fixed
I would still take a chance
If we're treading on thin ice
Then we might as well dance
So I play the fool
But I can't sit still
Help me get this rock
To the top of this hill

Do it
'til we're sick of it
Do it
'till you can't do it no more

Friends will pity you
I guess that's what they're for
But they just take you like they find you
When they find you on the floor

But you do it
’til you’re sick of it
Do it
‘til you can't do it no more

Going Down Together
--John Koerner

Now that we’re going down together
Can I get you something to make you feel better?
Now that the chances have come and gone
Everybody’s wondering what went wrong.

Now that we’re going down together
I need something to make me feel better
Now that somebody stole my dream
Would you dream a little dream for me?

Everybody I know needs to know
But nobody knows now, do they?
Everybody says they know (no, they don’t really know)
But they need something to make them feel better.

Now that we both know the other don’t know
Now that we’re going down together
Please don’t say you think it’s too late
We need you to make us feel .... whatever.

The Bells
--Jane Gilday

Late winter evening
Sunday snowflakes falling
Like pebbles and sand
On the beaches of some world
Like stars way above
Slipping through our eyes
Falling slowly, slowly falling,
With marvelous restraint

Every morning, tomorrow morning,
Yesterday morning, I listened for the bells.
Every morning, every morning,
I listened for the bells.

High atop a mountain
Far above a valley
There is a house
There did I once dwell
High in the orchards
Apples and windmill
Plums and cherries
And peaches for sale.
Going slowly, going slowly,
With marvelous restraint.

Every morning, every morning,
Every morning, I listened for the bells.
Every morning, every morning,
Tomorrow morning, I listened for the bells.

NATIONAL ANTHEM OF THE ANCIENT BRITONS (Ode to Wode)
-- Colin Douthwaite (tune: Men of Harlech)

What's the use of wearing braces,
Vests and pants and boots with laces,
Spats and hats you buy in places,
Down the Brompton Road?

What's the use of shirts of cotton,
Studs that always get forgotten.
These affairs are simply rotten,
Better far is woad.

Woad's the stuff to show men.
Woad to scare your foemen.
Boil it to a brilliant hue
And rub it on your back and your abdomen.

Ancient Briton ne'er did hit on

Anything as good as woad to fit on

Neck or knees or where you sit on.
Tailors you be blowed!!

Romans came across the channel
All dressed up in tin and flannel
Half a pint of woad per man'll
Dress us more than these.

Saxons you can waste your stitches
Building beds for bugs in britches

We have woad to clothe us which is

Not a nest for fleas.


Romans keep your armours.

Saxons your pyjamas.

Hairy coats were made for goats,

Gorillas, yaks, retriever dogs and llamas.

Tramp up Snowdon with your woad on,

Never mind if you get rained or blowed on,
Never want a button sewed on.

Go it Ancient B's!!

Smokin' My Dope
--By John Beach (maybe, I'm sure he couldn't say for sure himself)

You better not crash
‘till you hide all your stash,
‘Cause your names all are named
in a book in a drawer,
and one day we’ll come,
come knock, knock, knockin’ at your door,
and get you all the same,
because we know every doper’s name.

Well I just found joy,
I’m as happy as a new-born baby boy,
playin’ with his little choo-choo toy,
ever since I found my Mary Jane (doo-wah, doo-wah, doo-wah)

When I came home yesterday afternoon,
all my friends and neighbors were right there in my room,
and there was bread and jam all over the place,
and a Cheshire grin on everybody’s face.
You been smokin’ my dope (doo-doo, doo-wah di-yay)
Smokin’ my dope (doo-doo, doo-wah di-yay)
Smokin’ my dope (doo-doo, doo-wah di-yay
Some of you people been smokin’ my dope.

I looked up in the chimney to grab my stash,
and all I found was a handful of ash,
looked on the table, I found an empty can,
I said “Well, thank God it wasn’t The Man.”
You been smokin’ my dope (doo-doo, doo-wah di-yay)
Smokin’ my dope (doo-doo, doo-wah di-yay)
Smokin’ my dope (doo-doo, doo-wah di-yay
Some of you people been ****in’ my dog.

Esmeralda Slacks--C. Thomas Howell

I've spent some time in dresser drawers
hiding from the wars of lords
loosing strings and binding things
Where the souls of men ever die

I bought some hays
on which to lays
the wholesome widows
Where the souls of men ever die

The august council of dirty
Old men who respond to the flirty
Diddly whiles of certainty
Where the souls of men ever die

Coon dogs are just dogs
Who like coons and the dogs
Run round sniffing the houses
Where the souls of men ever die

J'Irai Tranquille

J'irai par la mer, j'irai tranquille
Cherchant tes yeux verts
Vers vers vers l'exil
Dans mon cœur marine j'emporterai ta flamme

J'irai par les airs, j'irai tranquille
Cherchant ton souffle doux
Doux doux doux fragile
Légère face au vent, plus libre qu'avant

Quelle que soit la voie
Où que tu sois
Qu'importe la manière
J'irai jusqu'à toi

J'irai par le feu, j'irai sans doute
Cherchant l'étincelle elle elle elle
Qui envoûte
Renaître à nouveau comme une goutte d'eau

Quelle que soit la voie
Où que tu sois
Qu'importe la manière
J'irai jusqu'à toi

J'irai par la terre, j'irai sans doute
Cherchant ton mystère erre erre erre
Sur la route
Et si je me perds j'irai par les airs

Quelle que soit la voie
Où que tu sois
Qu'importe la manière
J'irai jusqu'à toi

Quelle que soit la voie
Où que tu sois
Qu'importe la manière
J'irai jusqu'à toi

Take my word for it--this was really, really good in Russian:

I'm Glad
--Marina Tsvetaeva

I’m glad that you are not in love with me,

I’m glad that I am not in love with you, 

That the heavy ball of the earth 

Never drops out from beneath our feet.

I’m glad that we can make jokes, 

Get drunk, and not play with words,

And I don’t have to blush 

If our hands accidentally touch.

I thank you with hand and heart 

That you don’t even know you love me, 

That you don’t disturb my good night’s rest 

That we don’t meet at sunset, 

That we don’t walk under the moon, 

That the sun does not rise over us, 



That you are not in love—no, not with me, 

That I am not in love—no, not with you."

Summer of ‘88
--John Koerner



’Was the summer of ‘88 on the great mid-western plain 

The heat rolled on and the rain it did not rain. 



’Was election year and the candidates were crankin’ up a storm 

They were talkin’ through their hats and blowin’ hot air and they weren’t even getting’ warm. 



Yes, all around the countryside and the cities and the towns 

The price was goin’ up and the quality was goin’ down. 



Everywhere you’d look, yes, and everywhere you go 

Those liberal-conservative-left-right wingers were jawin’ to the bone. 



Well, down at the local water hole some fools were hangin’ around 

They were talkin’ about this and talkin’ about that and the air was gettin’ brown. 



When somebody would come walkin’ through the door 

They’d look ‘em up and they’d look ‘em down and they would not look no more. 



Their heads were full of sugar plums and fears of the enemy 

and the good and the bad and the ugly and some other fantasy. 



Yeah, the time was passing and the weather as waiting outside 

and for many a soul the water hole was a good place to hide. 



Yeah, meanwhile around the world the money boys were workin’ on their game 

goin’ for the money like they didn’t have no shame, 



And the nasty boys around the world were workin’ on their game 

They had drums and guns and sticks and stones and they called each other names. 



Ah, the science boys and the medicine boys were workin’ on their game 

changin’ the theories all around and they changed them around again. 



Yeah, the religion boys around the world were workin’ on their game 

tryin’ to deny that God is God they’re sayin’. 



And the average boys around the world were workin’ on their game 

letting those other boys tell ‘em how the game is played. 



Now and if men will be boys and women will be girls 

Tell me what in the world is gonna happen to this old world. 



Yeah, back at the local water hole some folks were hangin’ around 

They were talkin’ to some other folks that were there from out of town. 



’Was Buffalo Joe and Lou, his girl 

They’re just getting’ back home from a trip around the world. 



Bill said to Joe “Hey, what was it like?” 

”Yes, what was it like?” said Bar-B-Que Mike. 



”Well I saw some things I had never seen before 

and I’ll never be the same again never no more.” 



Yeah, down in the city, out on the plain 

the wind does blow and it blows the same. 



It blows the leaves, it blows the dust 

and it blows on them and it blows on us. 



A red-tailed hawk when it’s flyin’ up high 

can see a little bitty snake with her razor-sharp eyes. 



And a eight-hooter owl with her sensitive eyes 

can see a hundred thousand stars more than you or I. 



If anybody asks you who sang this song 

Tell ‘em it was some fool that has been here and gone. 



If anybody asks you where did he go 

It’s far, far away where the cool breezes blow. 



And the moon hangs low and the moon hangs high 

and the good old earth hangs in the sky. 



The sun never rises and the sun it never sets 

and you know it ain’t over yet. 



Yeah, the fat lady sang 

and it ain’t over yet.

L'âge idiot - Jacques Brel

L'âge idiot, c'est à vingt fleurs
Quand le ventre brûle de faim
Qu'on croit se laver le cœur
Rien qu'en se lavant les mains
Qu'on a les yeux plus grands qu'le ventre
Qu'on a les yeux plus grands qu'le cœur
Qu'on a le cœur encore trop tendre
Qu'on a les yeux encore pleins d'fleurs
Mais qu'on sent bon les champs de luzerne
L'odeur des tambours mal battus
Qu'on sent les clairons refroidis
Et les lits de petite vertu
Et qu'on s'endort toutes les nuits
Dans les casernes

L'âge idiot, c'est à trente fleurs
Quand le ventre prend naissance
Quand le ventre prend puissance
Qu'il vous grignote le cœur
Quand les yeux se font plus lourds
Quand les yeux marquent les heures
Eux qui savent qu'à trente fleurs
Commence le compte à rebours
Qu'on r'jette les vieux dans leur caverne
Qu'on offre à Dieu des bonnets d'âne
Mais que le soir on s'allume des feux
En frottant deux cœurs de femmes
Et qu'on regrette déjà un peu
Le temps des casernes

L'âge idiot c'est soixante fleurs
Quand le ventre se ballotte
Quand le ventre ventripote
Qu'il vous a bouffé le cœur
Quand les yeux n'ont plus de larmes
Quand les yeux tombent en neige
Quand les yeux perdent leurs pièges
Quand les yeux rendent les armes
Qu'on se ressent de ses amours
Mais qu'on se sent des patiences
Pour des vieilles sur le retour
Ou des trop jeunes en partance
Et qu'on se croit protégé
Par les casernes

L'âge d'or c'est quand on meurt
Qu'on se couche sous son ventre
Qu'on se cache sous son ventre
Les mains protégeant le cœur
Qu'on a les yeux enfin ouverts
Mais qu'on ne se regarde plus
Qu'on regarde la lumière
Et ses nuages pendus
L'âge d'or c'est après l'enfer
C'est après l'âge d'argent
On redevient petit enfant
Dedans le ventre de la terre
L'âge d'or c'est quand on dort
Dans sa dernière caserne

I have some in Russian. Trouble is, who can tell it's good? If I translate it, it won't be what it was.

This might help--look at the faces of the Russian guys in the audience (same look, regardless of age):



And who'da guessed they'd be doing this like this 80 years after the poem was written? It was written by Marina Tsvetaeva, who was not liked by Stalin and died of TB in the '30s.



Here's the jist of it (I know I've posted this before)--not really poetry, just sort of what it's saying:

"I’m glad that you are not in love with me,
I’m glad that I am not in love with you, 

That the heavy ball of the earth 

Never drops out from underneath our feet."



"I’m glad that we can make jokes, 

Get drunk, and not play with words,

And I don’t have to blush 

If our hands accidentally touch."



"I thank you with my hand and heart 

That you don’t even know you love me, 

That you don’t disturb my good night’s rest 

That we don’t meet at sunset, 

That we don’t walk under the moon, 

That the sun does not rise over us, 



That you are not in love—no, not with me, 

That I am not in love—no, not with you."