Grandpa was a grifter, and a gambler and a heel. He snuck around from town to town and dealt a dirty deal. He went out in the wild world to steal what he could steal. And you know he stole a fortune, but the money wasn't real. Yeah the money wasn't real funny how that was you know the money wasn't real He went out as a bandit but he came back empty handed; he should have been a rich man but the money wasn't real. The pharaoh was a miser, his story has been told, He had ten thousand workers build a pyramid to hold his statues and his trappings and his caskets and his gold He wanted to have everything But all he got was old. But none of it was real funny how that was you know that none of it was real. His monument so grand just got covered up by sand. He's just another mummy now cause none of it was real. A poor man buys a loaf of bread and and shares it, then it's gone. A rich man wrecks his Porsche and yet his worth keeps rolling on. All the good things that you've said and done are nothing you can pawn because when you're in the underclass You're always overdrawn. Yeah the money isn't real funny how that is you know the money Isn't real You can follow all the rules made for idiots and fools... you think you'll get your just reward but you won’t… You won't pick up a penny, but you might spare a dime. a dollar buys a pretty meager way to spend your time. A C-note buys you groceries and a grand might buy a thrill. You might rake in shit load and still not have your fill. I live in America, a country built on greed. I suppose it's not a bad thing if you just take what you need. But it seems everyone's afflicted by a hunger to exceed. Why should one man have a billion When there's a million mouths to feed? Yeah the money isn't real funny how that is you know the money isn't real. You can earn it you can burn it But in the end you'll learn it all amounts to nothing, cause the money isn't real.

Our old Italian neighborhood has turned Chinese maybe for good water water everywhere the ghetto has been gentrified the first folk have been pushed aside doesn’t matter if it’s fair it’s the same thing everywhere the Indians who once lived here made their trade in hunting deer water water everywhere they made a bargain with the Dutch that really didn’t really leave them much but the Dutchmen didn’t care water water everywhere the hippies have all moved upstate the hipsters came to take their place maybe the only difference is the hair the little shops you could afford to shop in now they all are boarded but the building owners they don’t care it’s the same thing everywhere. water goes just where it will You know it always flows downhill water flowing everywhere who are you and I to kid it just does what it always did it just goes where it’s meant too be flowing till it finds the sea water water everywhere The music clubs have all shut down now New York is a rich man’s town money money everywhere the only music that remains is while your waiting for the trains and you might tip them if you care music music in there air the money just goes where it must it’s all about the boom or bust doesn’t matter if it’s fair who are you and I to kid it settles for the lowest bid the bottom line is where it goes that’s the way the money flows doesn’t matter if it’s fair money money money everywhere In my new Chinese neighborhood the people that I meet are good it’s the same thing everywhere No matter where they came from friend they’re only people in the end it’s not their fault they had to settle there people people everywhere people trying just to be everywhere like you and me like the water to the sea going where their meant to be water water everywhere.

I'll give you salt for silver, if you'll only make the trade. This poetry, these melodies, are things that I have made. I've woven them from songs I've heard from stories I've been told. I'll give you salt for silver, unless you offer gold. I'm gonna build a big machine a mechanical collage I’m gonna build it in the workshop in the back of my garage it’s gonna be a huge contraption made of cogs and wheels and gears and discarded bits of everything I've gathered through the years. And when it gets to rolling It's gonna to make an awesome sound like thunder in the mountains Or an earthquake underground. When I'm done they're gonna ask me Bob, just what does that thing do. I'll turn around and ask them “ Man, well what's it do for you?" Gonna write a crazy song Not sure what it's gonna mean. Might be plain, it might be a puzzle, might be something in between. I’ll populate the verses with people from my dreams. It all might point to something deep or maybe just be what it seems. And when I get to singing it It's gonna be an awful noise, But I really can’t be bothered by the folks my voice annoys. When it's done they're gonna beg me Please explain that thing to me And I'll look at them and tell them that it's nothing they can't see. Do I really have to tell you that is just the way I roll? I'm just a simple farm boy with a complicated soul, who set out first to following in Woody Guthrie's racks to sing about the common man and the burdens on their backs. Gonna write an epic novel, yes a mountain range of prose. might turn the tide of history or turn all my friends to foes. Gonna be a huge concoction made of thoughts and words and prayers though there might be nothing underneath when you peel away the layers. But if I fail in that ambition gonna put away my pen, put on ordinary clothing to go walk the world of men. Gonna look in all their faces at the stories in their eyes in the hope that all the misery I see there makes me wise. Do I really have to tell you that that’s just the way I roll. I'm just simple farm boy with a complicated soul. Who set out first to following in Woody Guthrie’s tracks, to talk about the common man and the burdens on their backs. Who got waylaid in the city by the beatniks and the clowns and the grief that always comes to you from mixing ups and downs. who tried his hand at Jesus then he suffered his relapse And rebuilt his ideas from all those bits and scraps.

I fear the coming of the frost the mountains burn a world is lost I hear the drumming of the rain the bloody course the river’s stain A beggar comes to haunt my door and turned away she speaks of war with words that summon from the grave the ghosts of those I cannot save let whatever joy that’s left be had the drunken dance the king is mad let every boy and girl be glad the bells cry out the king is mad The king demands a grand parade and waving from his motorcade to those that come to cheer and bow he’ll save them, only he knows how With his atomic attaché with gilded hair and feet of clay he speaks of wars of words and walls and cuts a string of paper dolls. let every song that’s known be sung and praise ring out on every tongue let every boy and girl be glad the trumpets sound the king is mad Some say he came, a gift from God, though others here might find it odd that any god on any whim might elevate the likes of him as he is neither lord nor saint the gold upon his throne is paint and in the end his lone reward is the mirror of his own regard let every thing that’s true be false while cripples dance a broken waltz let every boy and girl be glad the herald weeps the king is mad the skies are empty now of birds the poets have run out of words no longer bound by false accords the soldiers fall upon their swords his counselors have been dismissed their names are stricken from the lists the king is left to rule alone a jester on a wooden throne let whatever joy that’s left be had the drunken dance the king is mad let every song that’s known be sung and praise ring out on every tongue let everything that’s false be true and every debt that left come due let every boy and girl be glad the bells cry out the trumpets sound

Rattlesnake waits in the shadow of a rock. Field mouse hides from the eyes of a hawk. Cactus stands like a statue of a man, him and me and my horse named Dan on a dusty road Indian watching from a switchback ridge. Ghost riders running up a cloudy bridge. Twilight stealing in the edges of the sky. Riding along thinking by and by I'll put down my load. Give me sweet fresh water and give me a cool cool breeze. Let me lay my head down In a grove of shady trees. I'd like a big white house with a pretty little wife inside, and a moonlight palomino I can ride. There's a ghost town down where the creek ran dry; buzzard circle in the hard blue sky. Dusty old bar empty bottles on the shelf, piano in the corner that plays itself it's a spooky sound. I hitched my horse to an old fence rail, fetched up water in a leaky pail, gonna get out of town before the daylight fails, I don't want to stick around. Give me sweet fresh water and give me a cool cool breeze. Let me lay my head down In a grove of shady trees. I'd like a big white house with a pretty little wife inside, and a moonlight palomino I can ride. Jackrabbit runs from the scattering stones, blackbird cries just to rattle your bones. Cow skull laying by a watering hole: Don't drink there or you'll lose your soul in the burning sun. I left my home and I can't go back, wildflower growing in a wagon wheel track. Dry wind coming down from the hills, I'm looking for a place where a waterfall spills when the day is done. Give me sweet fresh water and give me a cool cool breeze. Let me lay my head down In a grove of shady trees. I'd like a big white house with a pretty little wife inside, and a moonlight palomino I can ride.

A plastic bag blows down the street gets tangled in a tree, Chances are another breeze will come to break it free, to blow it down the alley through the back lots to the beach where a child may try to catch it but it sails right past their reach. It floats out to the ocean and settles in the tide. A passing whale might swallow it and it lodges there inside, Come jenny, run come see what's washed up on the sands, come see the gentle giant that's been slain by unknown hands. It's not your fault it's not mine it didn't happen by design it makes us sad it makes no sense it was an unintended consequence. An old man has a cardboard house in a weed choked vacant lot. He's long since quit regretting all the things he hasn't got. He asks no help from strangers And he lives as best he can The people call him homeless, But I think he's still a man. He comes down to my street and throws a blanket on the ground and makes a little livelihood from things that he has found. He might accept a quarter but he'll settle for a dime, till the police come to chase him off because they say that that's a crime. It's not your fault it's not mine it didn't happen by design It makes us sad it makes no sense it's only unintended consequence. The hills have caught on fire since the summer brought us drought. The rangers fight it day and night but they can't put it out. The people here are used to it, it happens every year. When a thing becomes familiar we lose all sense of fear. The weather woman tells us that there's not much chance for rain. the scientists predicted this, and the Christians all are praying. As for me I'll find a quiet hill to watch it from, and practice my acceptance of the things that surely come It's not my fault no it's not yours sometimes it's parched, sometimes it pours there's no blame here to dispense it's only unintended consequence It's It's not their fault and it's not ours We'll shift the blame to higher powers We'll say a long chain of events led to unintended consequence.

Riding on a northbound train. Leave the south behind. Rolling through the blue gray dawn. Feel the past unwind. Hills and valleys streets and alleys, little towns all in a row people I may never meet in places I may never go. Sometimes feel just like a gambler, watch my fortunes break, or just like some weary rambler wondering which fork to take. Got my backpack and my guitar, pocket change to pay my way. Bought myself a one way fare, I'm going home and there I'll stay. Living up to what I said I'd do, Girl you know I'm going home to you. Play some changes as I'm rolling looking for some words to sing take my rhythm from the train tracks wondering what the muse will bring. Fellow travelers on this night car asking me what songs I play they sometimes strike a harmony as we pass the rattling miles away. Living up to what I said I'd do, Girl you know I'm going home to you. Giving up the games I tried to play, coming home to you and there I'll stay. Riding on a northbound train. Leave the south behind. Rolling through the blue gray dawn. Feel the past unwind.