Folk Heroes- Richard Arnold Beattie Tom Paxton Phipps Auditorium Denver 1966

In cooperation with Sound Century Academy, the University of Colorado and The Harry Tuft Collection. 

Transcript

SPEAKER_03 1:22

Welcome one and all to our audio time machine dedicated to all the folks listening. You're listening to Folk Heroes on Community Radio. Today, we're heading back to Denver to Phipps Auditorium, where a young Tom Paxton is about to take the stage. Everyone's there, John Wolfe, the MC, host of Down to Earth, and Denver Friends of Folk Music, The Time 1966, 60 years ago. But before we go there, we're closer to home with the musical book of stories by Dick Jones and songs by yours truly, Richard Arnold Beattie, and a chapter and verse from Walking the Same Ground. Reflections of Community.

SPEAKER_01 2:12

Whenever I speak at events like this, I always look around the room to see if there's anybody present who has lived in the valley long enough to accuse me of lying. If you're one of those people, then please bear with me. As someone has said, there are three sides to every story: your side, my side, and the truth. Usually no one is intentionally lying, we just remember things differently. And as Mark Twain said, when I was younger I could remember anything, whether it happened or not. But I'm getting older and soon I shall remember only the latter.

SPEAKER_04 2:43

There's a right way and a wrong way. Sideways and a long way. There is my way or the highway. Precise to every story. There is my way. So many ways. Precise to every story. There is my side, there is your side, the broad side of a bar. There are four sides, there are three sides, and more sides do we are. My side, there is your side, and there is the tree. The front side of the barn. There are four sides, there are three sides, four sides to be yard. Two sides of a roofline. There is my side and your side, and there is the truth. And then there is the truth.

SPEAKER_01 4:49

A couple of years ago I was having a conversation with one of the Valley's old timers, not mentioning names, but her initials are Waleen Squire. We were remembering Westcliff's past, and she said, There are books about mining and ranching, but nobody has written anything about the last fifty years. So you need to do it. And knowing Waleen, I knew this wasn't a question. So I took up the challenge. And my book, Walking the Same Ground, Reflections of Community, was the outcome of my conversation with Waleen that day. Maybe it will give you just a little taste of the Wet Mountain Valley's past and introduce you to a few of its people as I remember them. No names have been changed to protect the innocent, mainly because no one is innocent. They are all guilty of helping to shape something called community. A half century ago, there were only a little over a thousand people in all of Custer County. This amounted to about one and a half persons per square mile. Westcliff had only one restaurant, five churches, no chain stores, no dentists, no bank. Traffic was what you might call light. In fact, if you saw more than five cars in a row, there had probably been a funeral. A semi-truck was a rare sight on the wet streets of Westcliff. If one did come to town, the schoolchildren would run to the fence to watch it pass, motion the driver to honk his horn. Highway 69 was still a dirt road from the county line to Gardner. One time my old Jeep broke down at Madino Pass, so I set out to hitchhike back to Westcliff. In three hours, only two vehicles came along. The second one picked me up. At the intersection of Main Street and Highway 69 North, where the four-way stop is today, it used to be a two-way stop. Each year in December, the town Christmas tree sat in the middle of the intersection. We just slowed down and went around it. I wonder how many conversations I had with Ben Kettle, Bud Camper, Harvey Rusk, or Jack Dareoo sitting in our trucks in the middle of the county road. I never heard anyone honk a horn or shoot us a dirty look. They just slowed down, waved, and went around us. Norma Salamino didn't have a car, so the school bus picked Norma up and brought her to town. No one worried that she might sue the school if something happened. Myrtle Cody occasionally left her car running in the middle of the road while she ran back into the house for a minute. Or twenty. We just slowed down and went around it, and John Comstock's green pickup rarely saw over thirty miles per hour on Highway 69. We just slowed down and stayed behind it. The Department of Motor Vehicles had just gone from the wall charge to the little box you look into for the vision test. The examiner came to Westcliff once a month, and I happened to be in to renew my license the same day as Harry Vandenberg, or Harry Van, as he was called. The examiner told Harry to look into the little box and read the smallest line he could. Harry looked, turned his head this way and that, finally looked up and said, Look in here and read what? The examiner said, Okay, Harry, stay in the county and don't drive at night. He gave him his license. He didn't go fast enough to hurt anybody, and when we saw that gray Jeep coming, we all just slowed down, moved over a little, and let Harry pass. And so with Highway 96 beginning here, and much of Highway 69 not paved, with no internet, no cell phones or direct dialing, no Google Maps or internet GPS, nobody who was just passing through the valley fifty years ago. If you were in Westcliff, you intended to be here, or you were lost.

SPEAKER_04 8:46

Talk this way without even trying. And when I got here, I walked this town for fifty some years, walking the same ground. For most of our lives, we've been here raising our children through laughter and tears. I've walked these roads, pastures and fields, work the ranch through the smells, taste, and fields. And I'm so glad that you came around. Listen to the stories of walking the same ground. I'm so glad that you came around to listen to the stories about walking the same ground. Walking the same ground. Now we're walking the same ground. Never flew over the vast lands of Alaska. I've never had to get to over these Pacific, never rode a horse through the bad lands of Nebraska. I'm so glad that you came around to hear these stories about walking the same round. I'm so glad that you came around to listen to the stories about walking the same round. Walking the same round, walking the same round so many people, so many stories, so many faces that's been allegories. I never met a cowboy I didn't like, and I always love the Starfields on a Julie Valley night. And I'm so glad that you came around to listen to the stories of walking the same ground. I'm so glad that you came around to listen to the stories of walking the same ground, walking the same ground. Now we're walking the same ground. I've walked through the wind through mud season, walk waist deep through the mountain snow, I've walked through a river to fish at the lake, to eat what I caught at the end of the day.

SPEAKER_00 13:30

An excellent concert, an excellent performer, and a wonderful human being we found uh yesterday and today is uh our performer tonight. Before we uh bring our artist, I'd like to mention what is happening next in uh with the Denver Friends of Folk Music, as uh I hope you will read the back of your program. Uh the next activity will be an informal concert, uh, and this will be at International House. An exact date hasn't been set, but uh the people who are on the mailing list will uh be informed of this. And if you have never been to an informal concert at International House, I would uh extend a special invitation to you. The people that have have found these particularly delightful, and I think uh also we hope in April to be presenting Ian and Sylvia. If we do, this of course will be the first time that they have ever performed in Denver. But we hope you keep that in mind. Uh in connection with uh our concert uh this evening, uh I'd like to thank a few people, uh the people that have helped the Denver Friends of Folk Music in promoting this concert, uh, in addition to uh Tom Paxton himself, of course, uh Jerry's Briar and Book, the Steakmaster Restaurant, the University Record Shop in Boulder, all of these people helped us in uh promoting the concert and inviting uh Tom to come out to their place and to meet their customers. And we're very appreciative of this, and we hope that you'll remember the names of these places when you're doing business in those areas. Uh also we'd like to thank Harry Tuft and the Denver Folklore Center. He also had uh Tom down yesterday for an autograph party, and uh he closed his concert hall tonight. They have a hoot night every Friday night, and he closed it this evening uh for the concert, and we're much appreciative of this. So I'd like to remind you that the concert hall, the Denver uh Folklore Center concert hall will be open tomorrow night, and a very talented young man by the name of John Adams will be singing down there in a couple of performances. Uh, I think that's about all I have to say, uh, except do not smoke in the auditorium. These people at Phipps take this very seriously. Uh, but uh they had a very serious fire here, you know, and the whole place was gutted. So there can be absolutely no smoking in the auditorium at intermission. You can smoke, of course, out in the lobby. That's all. Uh I don't really know what I can say about our artist. Uh I could say quite a quite a bit. Uh having met him yesterday and uh this evening, and uh several of the people in the Friends of Folk Music have met him and worked with him. And he is a very ambitious young man, a very cooperative young man. He has been all over Denver, uh up to Boulder in uh helping us promote the concert, and we are most appreciative to him, and we hope that uh you will show your appreciation to him right now by uh applauding. Let's welcome Tom Claxton.

SPEAKER_05 16:48

Thank you. Thank you very much. And a cast island or a battalion and a trooper. Watch out, you can watch too big for him. In a Spanish mainish fortress, in a jungle of a rain, a squadron cruiser, just a garden, I just took a ring couldn't change my mind. Couldn't make me be what you want me to. Your power couldn't make me blind, the wicked blind if it had me in a tower with a marble wall, no window above me, no stairs at all. If you need a bit of ladder, just to check on me, I'd still be free. Make me be what you want me to. Like it's blinded you if you had me in the shackles on a dungeon floor, coal iron shackles, and a cast iron door, a battalion of troopers, just watching the key. I'd still be free, I'd still be free. Thank you. Thank you very much. Thank you very much. Thanks for asking me to come to Denver. Something I've been wanting to do for a while. Word got out on me at about age of 10 or 12 that Paxton preferred women. Which knocked me out of most of the good jobs later on in life, but uh I was forced to become a folk singer thereby, but I've kept the faith, baby, as a certain recording artist has mentioned later. And uh I have a song about women I'd like to do for you now. A song about certain types of women, none of which I'm sure are here tonight. I will say that present companies accepted, so your boyfriends won't be backstage looking for me after the show. Unless, of course, the shoe fits, in which case we're all in trouble. Uh song is called A Natural Girl for Me. All over this great big city can't find a woman who's nice and pretty. They all look like a page in a magazine. Legs are long and they eat like a sparrow. Figures stick to the straight and narrow. Top and bottom are the same as in between. Show me a pretty little number when she walks. She rolls like thunder eyes as deep and dark as the deep blue sea. Round right here and round right there, pretty red lips and her very own hair. Wrap her up, she's the natural girl for me. With down in the coffee house palace, I met a little lady, and her name was Alice. She had friends and her friends had her red scene. Her face was dirty and a sweater was baggy. Pants were tied in a hero with Jackie. I've seen her kind on college football tea. Show me a pretty little number when she walks. She roll like thunder eyes as deep and dark as the deep blue sea. Around right here and round right there, parade red lips and have her own hair. Wrapper up, she's a natural girl for me. Way up in a penthouse, pretty thirteen miles up above the city. I met a lady from a wealthy family. She could cuss like a real long storm. She was making eyes at the doorman. She made a most unusual offer to me. Way up at a Broadway party, I met a little lady who was very hardy. She took me home to see her studio. She took out her paints and she whispered to me. She said she wanted to do me, and some of that paint will never come off. I know. Show me a pretty little number when she walked. She rolled like thunder, eyes as deep and dark as the deep blue sea. Round right here and round right there, pretty red lips and her very own hair. Wrap her up, she the natural girl for me. Wrap her up, she the natural girl for me. Thank you. Thank you very much. That's uh the smut for the evening. Help me sing this song, if you will. It's an old war horse of mine. It's a long and dusty road, a hard and a heavy load. The folks I meet ain't always kind. Some are bad and some are good. Some have done the best they could, some have tried to ease my trouble and mine. And I can't help but wonder where I'm bound, where I'm bound. Can't help but wonder where I'm bound. Sounds pretty good for the first time. I've been wandering through this line, doing the best I can, trying to find what I was meant to do. And the people that I see look as worried as can be, and it looks like they are wandering too. And I can't help but wonder where I'm bound, where I'm bound. Can't help but wonder where I'm bound Now I had a little girl one time, she had lips like Sherry Wine. She laughed me till my head went plumbing insane, but I was too blind to see she was drifting away from me, and my good gal went off on the morning train, and I can't help but wonder where I'm bound, where I'm bound, can't help but wonder where I'm bound. And I had a body back home, but he started out to roam, and I hear he's at by Frisco Bay. And sometimes when I've had a few, his old voice comes ringin' through, and I'm going out to see him some old day, and I can't help but wonder where I'm bound, where I'm bound, can't help but wonder where I'm bound now. If you see me passing by, and you sit and you wonder why, and you wish that you were a ramble or two, nail your shoes to the kitchen floor, lace them up and bar the door. Thank your stars for the roof that's over you. And I can't help but wonder where I'm bound, where I'm bound. Can't help but wonder where I'm bound. That those structural defects would have disappeared overnight. We all know that. But uh he was straight, and Congress found out about the private detective and it got a little grim, and uh the upshot was that the president of GM had to apologize on network television, daytime television. It was a great daytime TV show. Completely wiped out Secret Storm that day, but uh I thought it deserved a bit of a song. I said it to the tune of Tarara Boondier, which seemed fitting and proper somehow, and it's a it's called Detroit Auto Safety Massacre Blues. I bought a car the other day, and as I proudly drove away, a red light made me use the brake, which was my very first mistake. My head went through the steering wheel and put a hole in my windshield. And as they towed my car away, I heard the salesman say, Come buy another car, it won't go very far. A barracude shark designed to fall apart. Just when you pay it off, the engine starts to cough. Come trade it in and then start paying bills again. I felt my car had let me down, started asking all around if cars were built for safety's sake, which was my second bad mistake. For General Motors took the pains to try to prove I wasn't sane. They called me quite anonymously, and this they said to me: a sexy car design will have you feeling fine with sharpened sexy fins to stab pedestrians. And when you ram a bus, don't blame the rest on us. The brakes might leave you flat. We meant to tell you that. Some people started getting mad and felt that they were being had. The human cry was loud and clear, so loud some senators could hear. The automakers had come in spite of all to Washington, and there for all the world to see they made this fervent plea. Ta raboom dee. Come buy a car today. The hour is growing late. We must depopulate. There'll be some drivers who will be survivors too, but they won't get too far. We'll sell them faster cars. Thank you. Thank you very much. While we're on the subject, this is uh a protest song about superhighways. Probably it seems like a far-out subject for a protest song. But uh, all the cards and letters that you've been sending in all these months have been saying please, Tom, a song about superhighways. Indeed. Indeed, my spies in the lobby tell me you were talking little else on your way in tonight. So I uh wrote quickly a protest song about superhighways. It's uh a tragic ballad based on some experiences of my own and dedicated to those of you who from time to time pull up to the exact change lane on the turnpike and find you have no change. Or have it and throw it at the slot and miss. And then you don't know what since it's your last quarter, you don't know whether to get under the car or go through the red light, whereupon the helicopter comes and drops gas on you. This song is set to the tune of an ancient train wreck song, which also seemed apropos somehow. It's called uh Georgie on the freeway. The summer sun was beating down on poor George Chester's head. He stood outside the parking lot, his body shook with dread. The parking attendant brought his car at the end of a long hard day, and placing himself in the hands of God, he drove to the long freeway. The traffic rolled in a mighty speed as bumper to bumper they flew. They ricocheted from lane to lane, their mighty horns they blew. The cops were placed in mortal terror, they tried in vain to flee. George saw one cop drive through the rail, crying, near my God to thee. But traffic rolled at a terrible speed, all caution cast aside. George tried to reach the right-hand lane, but 'twas in vain he tried. He rolled right by his exit ramp, but he saw one hopeful sign. Another exit was coming soon, just twenty miles down the line. He came at last to the turnpike gate and he laid his money down. He took the first turn to the right and he followed the curve around. He took each bend of the clover leaf, he followed every sign. And when he came back to the same toll gate, he gave them another dime. He swore by all that he held dear, he'd make it through or die. He took the first turn to the right, the clover leaf to go through. He was quite sure of his success till the toll gate hove in view. And now they say when the moon is full and the clover leaf is still. A dime drops in the toll machine in the cool of a summer's night. And eternally that poor car takes the first turn to the ride. Thank you very much. I like to do that song with a poker face delivery, but uh you broke me up. Damn it. This is a song about certain events in the world of modern art that have had me kind of confused. Uh a whole movement called pop art, which I didn't understand at all until I began thinking of it in terms of employment for the handicapped, which I wanted to start fitting in together. And I could see, yes. Um the one thing I couldn't see was how that they would, you know, like do exact copies of sober boxes and sell them to somebody for 10,000. I figured that this is too good to be true, so I thought I would cash in too. Except I couldn't even do a passable solo box and nothing that gifted in that line. So like the juggler, I had to give of what I had, and I wrote this song and put a price tag of ten thousand on it, and it's still here, folks. Uh it's marked down to 495 now. I'm singing it rather desperately nowadays, uh because something tells me pop art is slipping. Life magazine had a whole feature on pop art, which means it's doomed. Uh next week, I ex uh next year I expect readers to digest to discover pop art. Uh at that time they will they will have an article by Richard Nixon proving that pop art is really a communist plot to defame the boys' clubs of America or something, and uh so before the whole issue is dead altogether, uh I sometimes sing the song two or three times per show. I hope you don't mind. Uh this is the first time. It's called Talking Pop Art Blues. Well, I went out for a walk last week. I passed a shop they call a boutique. Fancy dresses of every size, fancy wigs to pop your eyes, bracelets, diamond rings, stuff for women too. Well, I didn't want to see no more. I slipped inside the grocery store. I took down a can of beans, I pulled a dollar out of my jeans. The fella said, Hold it. Where do you think you're going? That'll be$300, please. Well, a feather could have knocked me down. I mean, I knew this was a high-priced town, but this was getting hard to take. I said, What the hell do you get for steak? He looked surprised. He said, It isn't just a can of beans, you know, now it's a work of art. Well, now I see what the poor man means. He's proud of that little can of beans. I didn't hear what else he said. I had my eyes on a loaf of bread. White bread.$400. Three for a thousand. Just about then a crowd came in, and pickings must have been very slim, because in just a minute or three or four, they cleaned out that whole grocery store. They bought brooms, they fought over watermelon. One fella put down a pickle. He said, I don't know much about art, but I know what I like. Well, as I stood there wondering why two little fellas came cruising by. Little tight suits and little black ties, one of them looked at me and said, My, how rustic. I'll bid a thousand. I said, I beg your pardon, it talks. I'll bid five thousand. So here I stand in a Superman suit, and everybody says I'm cute. I tried to tell them, but they would not see, and they hang their hats and coats on me. Well, a job's a job. Still, if I had my preference, I'd rather be Batman. Thank you. Thank you With a dark and rolling sea between my true love and me, I keep walking through this cold hard town. While I wait for better days, I could use a place to stay, or a floor where I could lay my blanket down. If I could beg, steal or borrow a ticket on some ship or plane, I'd be leaving London tomorrow to fly to my own love again. Up at dawn to change my shirt and wash away the dirt, then it's over to American Express. Not one letter did I find, no, she didn't send one line, though I know she has my forwarding address. If I could beg, steal or borrow a ticket on some ship or plane, I'd be leaving London tomorrow to fly to my own love again. Last night the Troubador was so fully barred the door, and I sang a song she knows quite well, but it wouldn't take too long to make up another song for a lonesome and the last farewell If I could beg, steal or borrow a ticket on some ship or play, I'd be leaving London tomorrow to fly to my own love again. To my mind, the most important elections last fall weren't our own elections, but the elections I had in Germany. About those elections I've written a little song called A Thousand Years. The burger banged his fist on the table, red face growing with pride, will rise, he cried as soon as we're able, avenging the ones who die. No more the hunted, no more the mouse, no more the quivering parade, the master the driving the slaves from the house, the master that coming to stay good is bread in the gravy, clattering its silken tie a mouth, I'm the navy, I'm all the thundering sky, once more the stadium rocking with cheers, once more the torchlight parade, away with the cowering dumping years, away with the humble star ray A thousand years, the tears in the wing for a while A thousand years with what the mic free from the vine And they fed us and clothed us, handed us, weapons to wet What give us a leader, we'll follow him down in the burger spill is the wine on the table, staggering out of his chair, will rise, he cry as soon as we're able, stroking the young man's hair, the English are finished, the French are fools, the Russians of China defeat, the Yankees are coming and follow their rule, and the time for the rising is here. The young man's eyes were fiery and glowing, the burgers hand in his arm will arise, he cried. The movement is growing, we'll march on a road upon. They're coming from Egypt, they're coming from Hef, they're coming from Argentine. March all the Russia, we'll march to the west, we'll show them one conquest and a thousand years the two the wind for a while. Thousand years, we'll pluck the light from the line for the fellows and clothe us, and that's weapons well. What the last leader, my god see them in the world. When morning breaks, I'll be gone. When morning breaks, I'll be gone. And where I gone I do not know. When morning breaks, I'll be gone. The captain read off my name. The captain read off my name. The regiment is marching the war. The captain read off my name, the drums are rollin' for all the drums are rollin' for all the lines are forming to wait for the morning. To wait for the pool can underall I'll breathe your name through the fire. I'll breathe your name through the fire. I'll breathe your name to bring me home again. I'll breathe your name through the fire. The drums are rollin' for the drums are rollin' for all the lines are forming to wait for the morning to wait for the crowd cannons are all when morning breaks, I'll be gone. They have uh basically uh a simple philosophy, it is hate. Um I first um started reading the news when I came to New York, and I found a startling thing about their editorial policy at least once a week. The daily news that they will demand that we drop the bomb on somebody. I get the feeling it doesn't matter. Last week it was Washington they wanted to get. But the real reason I wrote the song was a couple of years ago in an editorial they referred in passing to Pete Seeger as a left-wing thrush. So I said, okay, it's time for a song for the news. If you know it, you can help me sing it. Civil rights leaders are a pain in the neck. Can't hold a candle at the Shankai shek. How do I know? I read it in the daily news. Bam, the bombers are afraid of a fight. Pete search business, and that ain't right. How do I know? I read it in the daily news. Daily news, daily blues. Pick up a copy anytime you choose. Seven little pennies in the newsboy's hand, and you ride right along to never never land. We've got whoops. I've written new verses, let me think if I can remember. The country needs cops who are gonna be strong. If they beat you bloody, then you know where you're wrong. How do I know? I read it in the daily news. You know Pete Seeker is a danger to you. We keep singing bad peats like the radicals do. But how do I know? I read it in the daily news. Help me sing it, daily news, daily blues. Pick it up a copy anytime, too. Seven little pennies in the news boys hand, and you ride right along the never never line. It seems like the whole damn world's gone wrong. St. Joe McCarthy is dead and gone. How do I know? Read it in the daily news. Ronald Reagan's banner has been unfurled. Today, California and tomorrow the world. How do I know? Reddit in the daily news, daily news, daily blues. Pick up a copy anytime you choose. Seven little pennies in the newsboy's hand, and you ride right alone and ever never line. Well, John Paul Getty is just plain folks. The UN charter is accrual. How do I know? Reddit in the daily news. Jad Coover is the man of the hour. All that he needs is just a little more power. How do I know? Read it in the daily news. Daily news, daily blues. Pick up a copy anytime you choose. Seven little pennies in the newsboy's hand, and you ride right along the never never lie. What a friend we have in Hoover Freedom has no truer friend, truer friend. Is your thinking left of center? He will get you in the end. Does your telephone sound funny? Is some stranger standing by standing by? Do not bother your repairment. Take it to the FBI. Thank you. If you've been watching um Johnny Carson, you've been hearing him go to work on Con Edison, which is our uh public utility in New York. He calls it the Smoky Silver Power Company. It uh pollutants which uh polluted me and dried my throat out and everything. And that's why I need so much water. I've got a song. I just wrote it last Friday. I'd like to do it for you now. It's called um Talking Air Pollution Blues. Well uh I woke up yesterday feeling bad. I asked my wife what she thought I had. She said, honey, there ain't no doubt. Every time you cough, smoke comes out. Black smoke, air pollution, conhead oxygen. You know, my poor wife can't keep the house clean when she throws the curtains in the washing machine. The machine starts whining that it can't take that. Gears are strippin' and the soap's gone flat. One last soap bubble yelling, hell. Soots down there laughing, saying, Bring on more soap. I took a walk on the avenue, seemed like people were turning blue. Stood on the corner, what do you think? I see a city bus crying, honey, take a whiff on me. Thirteen people collapsed on a sidewalk. Cops took him in, drunk and disorderly. The mayor said Coned was guilty of crime. Conn Edison demanded their equal time. Sent down an expert, he was set to begin when he took a deep breath and his lungs caved in. Seems the studio air was filtered. Took two packs of cigarettes and a tank of carbon monoxide to bring him around. Then Conned started taking full pay jets. Sitting by the furnaces and watching the fire just to make sure the smoke doesn't get any higher. Course, the Japanese Navy sailed up and down the East River, nobody saw him except one old drunk. Cops took him in, said he was polluted. Doctor told me and he wasn't joking. If you wanna live, you better give up smoking. I said, Doc, you don't make sense. I gotta keep smoking in self-defense. My lungs are screaming. Saying, send us some more of that nicotine for a change. Blue the hell out of my own. You know, I don't worry about judgment day. I figure if I lose and go the other way. If it smells of sulfur in the air is black, I won't worry any that doesn't. I'm used to that. I'll crawl up on top of the chimney. Me and the Conhead boys will sit around singing home, sweet home. Thank you. Last summer, I saw another television show quite different from the crying, but I ain't no use. She's got a habit and she can't get loose. Stopping eating, never managing meets. Gonna be a hooker on Bleaker Street, on Bleaker Street. Honey, can't you see I'm cry? Said you'd leave it, but you ain't even try. Say you'll live and I can see you'll die. Police stopped her on the street today. She was holdin' and they took her away. Threw her in jail and they made her wait. She was crying. Oh Jesus, let me just get straight. Let me just get straight. Honey, can't you see? I'm crying. Said you'd leave it, but you ain't even try. Cindy loves me, but she has to go down to the corner in the wind and snow. Standing on the corner while the rain comes down. Standing on the corner till the man comes round. The man comes round. Honey, can't you see? I'm crying. Said you'd leave it, but you know you're alive. Say you live and I can see you're dying. Cindy, Cindy, what you gonna do? Got no money, you wait past due. You got every last penny I had. The man is restless, and your credit is bad. Your credit is bad. Honey, can't you see? I'm in cross. Said you thiever, but you ain't even try. Say you live and I can see you die. Cindy went south and took the cure. This time honey am straight for sure. Went to the corner to the grocery store. Gone ten minutes, and I know you score. I know you score. Honey, can't you see? I'm crying said you thiever, but you know you're alive. Say you're living, I can see you die. Cindy's crying, but it ain't no use. She's got a habit and she can't get loose. Stopping each and never mind she meets. Gonna be a hooker on bleaker street. On Bleaker Street, honey, can't you see I'm corrupted? Said you'd leave, but you ain't even try. Say you're living, I can see or die. Thank you.