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Pastimes : Deadheads -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: SIer formerly known as Joe B. who wrote (2254)	4/7/1998 9:40:00 AM
From: JakeStraw	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 49843

Picture a bright blue ball, just spinning, spinnin free, Dizzy with eternity. Paint it with a skin of sky, Brush in some clouds and sea, Call it home for you and me. A peaceful place or so it looks from space, A closer look reveals the human race. Full of hope, full of grace Is the human face, But afraid we may lay our home to waste. There's a fear down here we can't forget. Hasn't got a name just yet. Always awake, always around, Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down. Ashes, ashes, all fall down. Now watch as the ball revolves And the nighttime falls. Again the hunt begins, Again the bloodwind calls. By and by, the morning sun will rise, But the darkness never goes From some men's eyes. It strolls the sidewalks and it rolls the streets, Staking turf, dividing up meat. Nightmare spook, piece of heat, It's you and me. You and me. Click flash blade in ghetto night, Rudies looking for a fight. Rat cat alley, roll them bones. Need that cash to feed that jones. And the politicians throwin' stones, Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down. Ashes, ashes, all fall down. [Bridge:] Commissars and pin-stripe bosses Roll the dice. Any way they fall, Guess who gets to pay the price. Money green or proletarian gray, Selling guns 'stead of food today. So the kids they dance And shake their bones, And the politicians throwin' stones, Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down. Ashes, ashes, all fall down. Heartless powers try to tell us What to think. If the spirit's sleeping, Then the flesh is ink History's page will thus be carved in stone. And we are here, and we are on our own On our own. On our own. On our own. [Instrumental] If the game is lost, Then we're all the same. No one left to place or take the blame. We can leave this place and empty stone Or that shinin' ball we used to call our home. So the kids they dance And shake their bones, And the politicians throwin' stones, Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down. Ashes, ashes, all fall down. [Bridge two:] Shipping powders back and forth Singing black goes south and white comes north. In a whole world full of petty wars Singing I got mine and you got yours. And the current fashion sets the pace, Lose your step, fall out of grace. And the radical, he rant and rage, Singing someone's got to turn the page. And the rich man in his summer home, Singing just leave well enough alone. But his pants are down, his cover's blown... And the politicians throwin' stones, So the kids they dance And shake their bones, And it's all too clear we're on our own. Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down. Ashes, ashes, all fall down. Picture a bright blue ball, Just spinnin', spinnin, free. Dizzy with the possibilities. Ashes, ashes, all fall down. Ashes, ashes, all fall down. Ashes, ashes, all fall down. Ashes, ashes, all fall down. Ashes, ashes, all fall down.

To: SIer formerly known as Joe B. who wrote (2254)	4/7/1998 9:44:00 AM
From: AugustWest	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 49843

Smore Pie stuff.......... American Pie A long, long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile. And I knew If I had my chance, that I could make those people dance and maybe they'd be happy for a while. But February made me shiver with every paper I deliver. Bad news on the doorstep I couldn't take one more step. I can't remember if I cried when I read about his widowed bride. But something touched me deep inside the day the music died. So bye bye Miss American Pie. Drove my Chevy to the levy but the levy was dry. Them good old boys were drinkin whiskey and rye singing "This will be the day that I die. This will be the day that I die." Did you write the book of love and do you have faith in God above, if the bible tells you so. Now do you believe in rock and roll? Can music save your mortal soul and can you teach me how to dance real slow? Well I know that you're in love with him, cause I saw you dancin in the gym. You both kicked off your shoes. Man, I dig those rhythm and blues. I was a lonely teenage broncin buck with a pink carnation and a pickup truck, but I knew I was out of luck the day the music died. I started singing bye bye Miss American Pie. Drove my Chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry. Them good old boys were drinkin whiskey and rye singing, "This will be the day that I die. This will be the day that I die." Now for ten years, we've been on our own and moss grow fat on a rolling stone, but that's not how it used to be when the jester sang for the king and queen in a coat he borrowed from James Dean in a voice that came from you and me. Oh and while the king was looking down, the jester stole his thorny crown. The courtroom was adjourned. No verdict was returned. And while Lenin read a book on Marx, the quartet practiced in the park and we sang dirges in the dark the day the music died. We were singing bye bye Miss American Pie. Drove my Chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry. Them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye singing, "This will be the day that I die. This will be the day that I die." Helter skelter in a summer swelter. The birds flew off the fallout shelter. Eight miles high and falling fast. It landed foul on the grass. The players tried for a forward pass with the jester on the sidelines in a cast. Now the halftime air was sweet perfume while sergeants played a marching tune. We all got up to dance, oh, but we never got the chance. Cause the players tried to take the field, the marching band refused to yield. Do you recall what was revealed the day the music died? We started singing bye bye Miss American Pie. Drove my Chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry. Them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye singing, "This will be the day that I die. This will be the day that I die." Oh and there we were all in one place. A generation lost in space, with no time left to start again. So come on Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. Jack Flash sat on a candle stick cause fire is the Devil's only friend. Oh and as I watched him on the stage, my hands were clenched in fists of rage. No angel born in hell could break that Satan's spell. And as the planes climbed high into the night it took like the sacrificial rite. I saw Satan laughing with delight the day the music died. He was singing bye bye Miss American Pie. Drove my Chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry. Them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye singing, "This will be the day that I die. This will be the day that I die." I met a girl who sang the blues and I asked her for some happy news. But she just smiled and turned away. I went down to the sacred store where I'd heard the music years before, but the man there said the music wouldn't play. And in the streets, the children screamed, the lovers cried and the poets dreamed. But not a word was spoken. The church bells all were broken. And the three men I admire most, the father, the son and the holy ghost, they caught the last train for the coast the day the music died. And they were singing bye bye Miss American Pie. Drove my Chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry. Them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye singing, "This will be the day that I die. This will be the day that I die." They were singing bye bye Miss American Pie. Drove my Chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry. Them good old boys were drinking whiskey and rye singing, "This will be the day that I die."