The ceramics teacher announced on opening day that he was dividing the class into two groups. All those on the left side of the studio, he said, would be graded solely on the quantity of work they produced, all those on the right solely on its quality. His procedure was simple: on the final day of class he would bring in his bathroom scales and weigh the work of the “quantity” group: fifty pounds of pots rated an “A”, forty pounds a “B”, and so on. Those being graded on “quality”, however, needed to produce only one pot — albeit a perfect one — to get an “A”. Well, came grading time and a curious fact emerged: the works of highest quality were all produced by the group being graded for quantity. It seems that while the “quantity” group was busily churning out piles of work-and learning from their mistakes — the “quality” group had sat theorizing about perfection, and in the end had little more to show for their efforts and a pile of dead clay.

David Bayles & Ted Orland from their book 

Art & Fear:

Observations on the Perils (and Rewards) of Artmaking 

So, quantity does make quality.

True for any art form, craft and profession.

Anything!

Ansel Adams

Another excerpt from Art & Fear.

Ansel Adams, never one to mistake precision for perfection, often recalled the old adage that “the perfect is the enemy of the good”, his point being that if he waited for everything in the scene to be exactly right, he’d probably never make a photograph.

Ansel Adams

Big thanks to the Folk School Coffee Parlor in Ludlow, Kentucky for starting a 52 Club. The prompt from the November 19th meeting was "coffee cup". I had a few idea balloons floating in my mind. Fairly easy subject, many different directions were possible. I wasn't panicked. Just had to pick one.

Last Saturday afternoon one balloon popped and it hit me like the first spray of a cold shower. I had built the song's skeleton in my journal the day before, November 21st. Yeah! Let Your Soul Sing It's Song wrote like warm butter. What I talked about Friday actually happened! 

Let Your Soul Sing Its Song

Walt Sample

Tossing and turning tangled in blanket and sheet

Side back side stomach side back pillow bunched pillow flat

Explosions goin’ off inside of me I can’t fall asleep

Boom bang boom bang flash rat a tat tat tat

Belly bursting with thoughts kept hostage inside

Fork shaped words eating their way out of me

Fighting to live outside come alive and survive

Phrases fitting together like lock and key

Let your soul sing its song

Let your heart be heard

Get up and fill the coffee cup with midnight black

Sharpen the pencil and write down every word

Tiger toothed chorus chomping at my face

Lyrics licking my cheeks like fiery rain

I’m too far along to play it safe

Gonna write my song smother the flame

Let your soul sing its song

Let your heart be heard

Get up and fill the coffee cup with midnight black

Sharpen the pencil and write down every word

A 52 Club meets weekly and songwriters gather and share their stuff.

At the end of the night, each songwriter writes a prompt down on a little scrap of paper and they are mixed together in a bowl. One topic is randomly picked and that is the prompt for the next meeting. 

Fun stuff indeed!

The meetings are every Wednesday from 6 to 8.

http://folkschoolcoffeeparlor.com/index.html/

The prompt for December 3rd meeting is "force your hand".

Her eyes told me a story of ...........

Oh my!

Sharpen those pencils, grab a ream, set aside a few weeks and get started!

Tal Peleg is an Israeli make up artist. Thank you for the inspiration. 

"Not what we say about our blessing, but how we use them, is the true measure of our Thanksgiving"

W T Purkiser

Thanksgiving Day

Ray Davies

Are you going on Thanksgiving Day

To those family celebrations

Passing on knowledge down through the years

At the gathering of generations

Every year it's the same routine

All over, all over

Come on over, it's the Thanksgiving Day

Papa looks over at the small gathering

Remembering days gone by

Smiles at the children as he watches them play

And wishes his wife was still by his side

She would always cook dinner on Thanksgiving Day

It's all over, it's all over, it's all over the American way

But sometimes the children are so far away

And in a dark apartment on the wrong side of town

A lonely spinster prays

For a handsome lover and a passionate embrace

And kisses all over, all over, all over her American face

It's all over, it's all over, it's all over

'Cause today she feels so far away

From the friends in her hometown

So she runs for the Greyhound

She'll spend hours on the bus

But she'll reach town for Thanksgiving Day

Come on over, come on over

Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day

Come on over, come on over

Come on over, come on over

Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day

At a truck stop a man sits alone at the bar

Estranged in isolation

It's been a while now and he seems so far

From those distant celebrations

He thinks back to all the mistakes that he made

To a time when he was so young and green

Innocent days when they both looked forward to that

Great American dream

Now it's all over, it's all over, all over

And all over America people are going home

On Thanksgiving Day

Now Papa looks out of the window

The sight brings a smile to his face

He sees all his children coming back home

Together on this special day

Come on over, come on over

Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day

Come on over, come on over

Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day

Come on over, come on over

Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day

Come on over, come on over

Come on over, it's Thanksgiving Day

 “What’s so hard about that first sentence is that you’re stuck with it."

Joan Didion

Oh yeah you are. 

Important to make sure you have a yummy bait and a tiny bit of the hook exposed. 

For example, 

"Call me Ishmael." 

Herman Melville's first line in Moby Dick took us on a first class voyage.

Like the first brick laid everything builds off of the first sentence. 

Powerful moving lyrics. 

Sun Comes Up It's Tuesday Morning

Michael Timmins 

Sun comes up, it's Tuesday morning

Hits me straight in the eye

Guess you forgot to close the blind last night

Oh, that's right, I forgot, it was me

I sure do miss the smell of black coffee in the morning,

The sound of water splashing all over the bathroom,

The kiss that you would give me even though I was sleeping,

But I kind of like the feel of this extra few feet in my bed

Telephone's ringing, but I don't answer it

'cause everybody knows that good news always sleeps till noon

Guess it's tea and toast for breakfast again

Maybe I'll add a little T.V. too

No milk! God, how I hate that

Guess I'll go to the corner, get breakfast from Jenny

She's got a black eye this morning, `Jen how'd ya get it?'

She says, `Last night, Bobby got a little bit out of hand'

Lunchtime. I start to dial your number

Then I remember so I reach for something to smoke

And anyways I'd rather listen to Coltrane

Than go through all that shit again

There's something about an afternoon spent doing nothing

Just listening to records and watching the sun falling

Thinking of things that don't have to add up to something

And this spell won't be broken

By the sound of keys scraping in the lock

Maybe tonight it's a movie

With plenty of room for elbows and knees

A bag of popcorn all to myself,

Black and white with a strong female lead

And if I don't like it, no debate, I'll leave

Here comes that feeling that I'd forgotten

How strange these streets feel

When you're alone on them

Each pair of eyes just filled with suggestion

So I lower my head, make a beeline for home

Seething inside

Funny, I'd never noticed

The sound the streetcars make as they pass my window

Which reminds me that I forgot to close the blind again

Yeah, sure I'll admit there are times when I miss you

Especially like now when I need someone to hold me

But there are some things that can never be forgiven

And I just gotta tell you

That I kinda like this extra few feet in my bed

The woods were hushed and attentive, the trees seeming to huddle themselves closer

together, as if awaiting not just the rain but some story about to be told.

Ron Rash from his novel Serena.

What story would you tell the trees?

Charlie Daniels talks about his song Uneasy Rider.

"Well, I can tell you where the idea for the song came from, but it doesn't go with the story. The story, of course, as with so many songs, is totally fictitious. I used to do a little bit of record producing. I used to produce a group called the Youngbloods that were headquartered at San Francisco. And we were doing a live album, and we did part of it at the Fillmore East and West, and we did part of a – used to be called a rock festival. It was one of those big three-days affairs where everybody in the world played. And that day I think it was the Youngbloods and the Grateful Dead and the Jefferson Airplane, and I don't know who else. But you know what I'm talking about, one of those extravaganza type things. And all these people were there at the motel. Of course, one of them stayed at the same motel we were staying at. And they were these long-haired hippie type people, and the movie "Easy Rider" had not been out very long. And here we were sitting in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, with all these long-haired people, and I think a lot of them had the impression that if they were to get two blocks away, that somebody was going to run out with a pair of shears and cut their hair and threaten their life. And I was born in the South, and to me this attitude was just kind of funny, you know. And that's where the idea came from. And I just took a guy and put him in a fictitious situation, and extricated him. But of course there's no truth to it other than just being around people that kind of had the attitude, a fear of redneck bars. Of course, I don't go to redneck bars, either."

I love the giant buckle!

In the need of a prompt this chilly Saturday morning?

How about this to get your mind some exercise.

We parked in the same spot where we’d overlooked the river weeks before. It roiled down below us in the dark, the current catching the moonlight in patches. Like watching a beetle hustle through fall leaves.

Gillian Flynn, taken from her book Sharp Objects.

He traded and drank and told about his hunting trip, which had been inconsequential except that a mountain lion had followed him for three days and at night he had to wake every hour and build up the fire to keep the lion backed off in the dark, for otherwise it was hard to sleep with the yellow eyes staring at him. 

Charles Frazier, from his novel Thirteen Moons.

Wow! Inconsequential except for the darn mountain lion sizing up dinner. I don't think I'd sleep very well. 

With any luck you will might find it hard to sleep because a song is hunting you through out the night. Keeping you tossing and turning, tangled up in your covers. Hungry verses begging you to bring them to life, poking you with words shaped like spoons and forks. A monster chorus snapping at your face with needle sharp lyrics. You can feel spittle hitting your cheeks and static charged breath exciting your nose. Don't keep building up the fire to keep it away.

Fill the coffee cup with midnight black and let the words escape from the pencil.

These are always keepers. 

"My songs emerge unbidden and unplanned and completely on a schedule of their own.We have, all of us, over the years, written things that responded to the world as it slapped us in the face. Me and Nash, singing 'To the Last Whale' and 'Find the Cost of Freedom'. Stills coming up with 'For What It's Worth'. These came right out of the news. People have accused us of taking stances and the truth is we don't." 

David Crosby

If you have the guts turn on the news channel of your choice for thirty minutes. Have a dozen sharpened pencils and and six yellow pads ready. Strap yourself in and go! 

All The Things I Can't Say

Matthew West

So much is poetry

when we let it go,

flat stones waiting

to skid over mystery.

Symbols never set out

to be more

than clues;

but eager seekers

take them hostage.

If this makes sense,

or, if it doesn't....

I'm estranged from tense,

lost between the lines,

half ecstatic-

half afraid

of all the things

I can't say.

Matt has a way with morphemes. 

All The Things I Can't Say is from his book The Earth Turns Softly

Kevin Welch tells us about the two most valuable lesson he learned being a staff songwriter.

For the last few years I’ve taken to teaching, holding four day workshops out here in the Texas Hill Country, where I live now. Most writers I meet only have their friends and family to bounce their work off of, and they may not be getting accurate responses or critiques. And we need that. I was very fortunate to have fallen into a nest of veteran writers at an early stage, and my stuff was critiqued every day, for years and years. We may not always agree, but there will always be value in finding out what someone is hearing. I always say, songs are not written to be read, they’re written to be HEARD, and that’s a different critter.

There were many many lessons presented to me through 25 years of being under contract as a writer, but there were two in the early days that stand out for me. The first was this. I was assigned to a song plugger named Cliff, and I would go to Cliff’s office and sit in front of his desk and play him my new song. Cliff was not nearly as appreciative of my pearls as the folks back home, and that used to really piss me off. But I kept trying, and he kept listening. So, one day I show Cliff the new song and he kind of sighs in his big office chair and says ‘Tell ya what Kev, go home, play this song to your wife, wait a half hour and ask her what it was about. See if she can tell you.” So I said Ok, Cliff, by God I will. I followed Mr. Smartypants instructions to the tee, and much to my ultimate benefit, he turned out to be right. Jennifer could not recall what the hell that song said. So Cliff, if you’re out there, thank you. That taught me to consider the listener, to remember that if I were going to ask someone to devote 3 or 4 minutes of their life to listening to me, I’d better have something that they could hear. Really hear.

The next big lesson came shortly after that. At that time, at that publishing company, new guys like me were being paid an advance of 100 bucks for every song they accepted. I was trying hard to figure out what they wanted me to write, trying everything I could think of, and failing badly. My songs were sort of a drag. I mean, they were put together, they were making sense, they functioned in a basic way, but there was no blood in them, no life, no soul. One day I decided I would just secretly write myself a song, something that I dug, something that I would never show anybody but my friends. And so I did. I wrote a little song called “Everyone Gets Crazy Now and Then”, and it was good, and it felt good too. Now, this was during a year in which my wife and I had a combined income of around $4,000. We were very broke, and we had a newborn baby, too.

So after a couple of days, I realized that I needed that hundred bucks, and I only had one new song, the secret one. I was afraid they would laugh me out of the building, but I had no choice, and so I took it to them. I was a little surprised, and very relieved, when they took it and gave me the money. Two days later I got a call telling me that Roger Miller had just recorded it. My first cut happened from the first real song I had written in a while, and it was by my hero Roger Miller. SO…..that’s how I learned to write what you love, straight from your heart, because that’s the only place you can go to get the good stuff.

I want to add that there is always room for your brain to get involved, but try to wait till you’re finished with that first outpouring of inspiration. I love the Muse, but she still sometimes needs a rewrite. And I should also confess that I went on to write many more songs on the random Tuesday afternoon that were nothing but what Harlan Howard used to call “pencil sharpeners”. Some of those were recorded too, and helped put food on the table, and I was grateful. Not terribly proud maybe, but grateful still. And besides, writing those things can be really good for your chops. Just don’t forget where to go for the good stuff.

Here is a link to Kevin's workshops.

http://kwsongworkshops.com/wp/

Heading outside to throw a few. 

Dug this hidden Devo jewel out and gave it a listen. 

Clever songwriters.

Snowball

Mark Mothersbaugh & Gerald Casale

My baby took our love
And then she rolled it up
Rolled it up a hill
Like a ball of snow
Like a snowball grows
Until it gets too big
Until she lost control
And it rolled back down
And it rolled back down
And it rolled back down
And it rolled back down

She took a tiny bit
And rolled it up again
Slower than before
She went a step too far
She had to let it go
I saw it go straight down
My baby turned around
Started up again
Started up again
Started up again
Started up again

Eyes were made for looking'
Hands were made for holdin'
Hearts were made for lovin'
Lips were made for kissin'
Legs were made for walkin'
Tracks were made to follow
That's what I'm gonna do
Two tracks
In the snow
Two tracks
Up that hill
My heart broke
When my baby left
Two tracks behind

I will make one cloud white softball sized snowball and bring it inside when my arm finally gives in and cries out for help. While wet mittens and boots dry and steam by the fire, I will study the frozen marshmallow white sphere while it rests dying on a big blue plate. The achy tearful scent of Ben Gay will flavor the sips of hot cocoa while I ponder the snowball and listen to everything it has to say.

“I wanted to understand things and then be free of them. I needed to learn how to telescope things, ideas. Things were too big to see all at once, like all the books in the library—everything laying around on all the tables. You might be able to put it all into one paragraph or into one verse of a song if you could get it right.”

Bob Dylan

We all agree Bob Dylan knew the secrets of great songwriting. 

He gives them to us in four simple sentences. 

What are they?

"The past is a great place and I don't want to erase it or to regret it, but I don't want to be it's prisoner either."

Mick Jagger

Try something new today. 

Write a song in 6/8 or 3/4 time. 

Write a reggae song.

To eat an egg you must crack the shell.

Jamaican Proverb

Enjoy your egg salad!

And you new songs.

Flowers have a specific meaning when given as gifts. Each type of flower has it's own meaning or emotion. Floriography is the name of this science, the silent language of flowers. Many lists are on the net here are a few links.

http://aboutflowers.com/images/stories/Florist/languageofflowers-flowerdictionary.pdf

http://www.fromyouflowers.com/flower-resource/meaning-of-flowers.htm

http://www.proflowers.com/blog/flower-meanings


A great resource when that unique image or theme is needed.

Give yourself a bouquet of inspiration and nose around the lists.

"Lighter knots, taken from the centers of rotted stumps, sputtered and flickered from the thick, red resin, throwing on the wall shadows that jumped and contracted, only to leap up again, making the walls come alive with fantastic etchings appearing and disappearing, growing and receding. There were long silences while we watched the flames and the dancing shadows."

An excerpt from The Education of Little Tree, a grand book written by Forrest Carter,

Ah, the ageless joy of studying fire place flames and shadows. A kaleidoscope of images lurk in the sparky shimmers and ghostly shadows. What do you see?

Michael Franti tells us how the idea for Sound Of Sunshine came about.

"Sound of Sunshine" was one that I actually wrote in the hospital after my appendix ruptured. Every day I'd go to the window to see if the sun was shining, and if it was, I'd lean in the window. I thought to myself, "If I could bottle this feeling of how good the sun feels when you're trying to heal your body, it would be amazing." So I thought, "Why not try to put it into a song so that I could share that experience with other people?"

Sound Of Sunshine

Michael Franti, Carl Young, Jason Bowman

I wake up in the morning, it's 6 o'clock
They say there may be rain but the sun is hot
I wish I had some time just to kill today
And I wish I had a dime for every bill I got to pay

Some days you lose, you win
And the waters as high as the times you're in
So I jump back into where I learned to swim
Try to keep my head above it as best I can

That's why here I am
Just waiting for this storm to pass me by
And that's the sound of sunshine coming down
And that's the sound of sunshine coming down

I saw my friend, Bobby, he said "What's up man?
You gotta little work or a twenty to lend?"
I opened up my hand, he said, "I'm glad to see
They can take away my job but not my friends, you see"

And here I am
Just waiting for this storm to pass me by
And that's the sound of sunshine coming down
And that's the sound of sunshine coming down

Yo, yo, here we go
I want to go where the summer never ends
With my guitar on the beach, there with all my friends
The sun so hot and the waves in motion
And everything smells like suntan lotion

The ocean and the girls so sweet
So kick off your shoes and relax your feet
They say that miracles are never ceasing
And every single soul needs a little releasing
The stereo bumping till the sun goes down
And I only want to hear that sound

And that's the sound of sunshine coming down
And that's the sound of sunshine coming down

And now say
You're the one I want to be with
When the sun goes down
You're the one I want to be with
When the sun goes down

Sing, you're the one I want to be with
When the sun goes down
You're the one I want to be with
When the sun goes

That's the sound of sunshine coming down
And that's the sound of sunshine coming down

When the sun goes down
When the sun goes down
When the sun goes down

Began reading Apache Moon by Bren Yarbrough Bruhn yesterday. It began with a quote by G. K. Chesterton, fitting for the subject matter of the book. This morning I discovered what a treasure of thought G. K. Chesterton left us. Here are a few jewels.

There are no rules of architecture for a castle in the clouds.

Fables are more historical than fact, because fact tells us about one man and fable tells us about a million men.

There is but an inch of difference between a cushioned chamber and a padded cell.

Pass the salt and pepper, please.

Spice

Matthew West

Words are slippery noodles

that dodge my fork

and swim in the thin sauce

of intention.

They tease taste buds

making my mouth water

for the right 

spice of letters.

From the book My Sounds by Matthew West.

Love the words of William Faulkner.

“Let the writer take up surgery or bricklaying if he is interested in technique. There is no mechanical way to get the writing done, no shortcut. The young writer would be a fool to follow a theory. Teach yourself by your own mistakes; people learn only by error. The good artist believes that nobody is good enough to give him advice. He has supreme vanity. No matter how much he admires the old writer, he wants to beat him.” 

“I don't think anybody can teach anybody anything. I think that you learn it, but the young writer that is as I say demon-driven and wants to learn and has got to write, he don't know why, he will learn from almost any source that he finds. He will learn from older people who are not writers, he will learn from writers, but he learns it -- you can't teach it.”   

"In my later years, I have looked in the mirror each day and found a happy person staring back. Occasionally I wonder why I can be so happy. The answer is that every day of my life I've worked only for myself and for the joy that comes from writing and creating. The image in my mirror is not optimistic, but the result of optimal behavior."

Ray Bradbury

Clean your mirrors!

Unique song. Great idea.

Ring Ring

Eddie Reeves & Alex Harvey

Ring, ring, telephone ring

Somebody said, Baby what you doin'

I've been wonderin' where you've been

Now and then I think about you and me

There's no use fightin' 'bout things we can't recall

It don't matter now at all, just come on home

Baby, we'll laugh and sing and we'll make love

And let the telephone ring

Ring, ring, doorbell ring, baby come on in

Got James Taylor on the stereo

I'm glad you came around, I've been feelin' down

Just talkin' to Tony and Mario

You know, they make good conversation

Still it ain't no consolation 'cause I got love

Baby I'll give you some and if somebody comes

We'll let the doorbell ring

Said, ring, ring, golden ring around the sun

Around your pretty finger

Ring, ring, voices ring with a happy tune

Anybody can be a singer

The sun come up across the city

I swear you never looked so dog gone pretty

Hand in hand we'll stand upon the sand

With the preacher man, let the weddin' bells ring

Hand in hand we'll stand upon the sand

With the preacher man, let the weddin' bells ring

Hand in hand we'll stand upon the sand

With the preacher man, let the weddin' bells ring

Add song meaning

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Not sure what to write? See example

Example Song Meanings

Here is where you can write about what the highlighted lyrics

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"There's some magic in songwriting as it filters through your heart and your mind and your body. If you work on those things, what comes out of your fingers isn't just craft, but it's your heart and soul and everything. The only way to do that is to live a real life, to be conscious of all things—spiritual, nature, fellow human beings, compassionate things, all that. When you combine all that and it comes out your fingers, you're writing songs. I can always tell how hard a person's lived by the way they write songs." 

Fred Eaglesmith

 "Harlan Howard used to say to me, 'You can write; you just ain't got nothing' to say. Get divorced and married a few times.' And I did, and then more things than that happened. Now I wish I didn't have as much to say. But since I do, I'll write down everything I can." 

 Gary Allen

Dig deep inside, find the vein and let it flow. 

Camping on Matt's Five Dollar Bill poem posted yesterday, here are the lyrics to Heads Or Tails. I plan on recording this tune in my upcoming session.

Heads Or Tails

Walt Sample

Face down on the bottom of a white cup

I felt her fingers pry me away

She hoped I would bring some luck

Put me in a slot and pulled to play

Cherry cherry yellow lemon

She squeezed her empty purse

Same old sad fairy tale endin’

Heads or tails same old news

Just a slot machine quarter

Not enough to cure the can’t pay my rent blues

His hungry fingers squeezed my silver face

And pulled me up out of the dark

He hid me away then prayed for grace

Hoping to heal his homeless heart

His eyes traced the design on the floor

Walking thru the Sunday stares

Counting steps to the safety of the door

Heads or tails same old news

Just a poor box quarter

Not enough to cure the empty belly blues

His hungry fingers squeezed my silver face

And pulled me up out of the dark

Heads or tails same old news

Just a poor box quarter

Not enough to cure the empty belly blues

Five Dollar Bill

Matthew West

She handed me a five,

torn and threadbare

as a favorite pair of jeans.

It filled my fingers

with stories:

a toy-coveting

child squeezing it

like a slippery salamander

at pockets depth,

frugal mother with secret savings

in a stuffed recipe box, guarded by

dog eared cook books.

I see pleading-palmed beggars

and slippery-fingered thieves,

merciful donations,

hopeful lottery ticket.

Now the five

rests, friendly,

in my fingers, 

waiting for 

another

story.

A image laded poem by my friend Matt West taken from his book, Thoughts in Defrost. In addition to being a mind blowing poet, Matt is a brilliant songwriter and musician. Songs coming soon to Barnagie Hall.

Three anonymous quotes to chew on a while.

“Music is what feelings sound like.” 

“When you’re happy, you enjoy the music. But when you sad, you understand the lyrics.”

“When life leaves you speechless, songs give you lyrics to find meaning.”

“Don't say it was delightful; make us say delightful when we've read the description. You see, all those words (horrifying, wonderful, hideous, exquisite) are only like saying to your readers Please will you do the job for me.” 

 C.S. Lewis

November came in like a angry satanic demon looking for frigid revenge. Arctic thorns of ice cut stinging skin deep wounds. Cruel blasts of wind tossed the sorrel and carrot colored leafs into devil dog funnels that spun like colored pencil shavings in a blender at you feet. Boy Dog and Lucky Boy stuck to my side like new born pups to their mother. They did not want to forgo the comforts of the cabin for a midnight ridge prowl.  Snow flew in eye level sheets like carpets of  frozen cotton shreds never touching down to rest. Blinding. Made me think of another highly underrated songwriter Hoyt Axton and his song Snowblind Friend. Steppinwolf cut the song on their Steppinwolf 7 album released in 1970. Great song with a ton of classic lines. Always been one of my favorites.

Snowblind Friend

Hoyt Axton

You say it was this morning when you last saw your good friend

Lyin' on the pavement with a misery on his brain

Stoned on some new potion he found upon the wall

Of some unholy bathroom in some ungodly hall

He only had a dollar to live on 'til next Monday

But he spent it all on comfort for his mind

Did you say you think he's blind?

Someone should call his parents a sister or a brother

And they'll come to take him back home on a bus

But he'll always be a problem to his poor and puzzled mother

Yeah he'll always be another one of us

He said he wanted heaven but prayin' was too slow

So he bought a one way ticket on an airline made of snow

Did you say you saw your good friend flyin' low?

Flyin' low dyin' slow

You say it was this morning when you last saw your good friend

Lyin' on the pavement with a misery on his brain

Stoned on some new potion he found upon the wall

Of some unholy bathroom in some ungodly hall

He only had a dollar to live on 'til next Monday

He said he wanted heaven but prayin' was too slow

So he bought a one way ticket on an airline made of snow

Did you say you saw your good friend flyin' low?

Dyin' slow, flyin' low

Did you say you saw your good friend flyin' low?

Dyin' slow, flyin' low, blinded by snow.

Steppinwolf cut another Hoyt Axton anti drug song, The Pusher,  on their Steppinwolf album released in 1968.

Made famous by my all time favorite movie, Easy Rider.