THE POET, THE PROPHET, THE WRITER, & THE MUSICIAN
(an allegorical epic poem)

I
As was born the poet to limner and carol
was wombed the prophet to contemplate diurnal.
Gestation formed the writer to scroll and anal
and bore the musician to psalm and yodel.

Each must cast alone while on a ship with eleven more
but each must know that sodality is the ship's only shore.

From the house of concord, a monastery of breath, each was sent—an antithesis of death.

While stepping high on lamenter's hill
plunders Bereftos--carnate of desperation's will
Plotting and scheming to forge battlefield
with anticipation of the artists' yield.

II
It was the poet for whom Bereftos first laid snare.
And it was the bard of bloom who first drew his gaff
To crypt the demon on veracity's behalf
With cantos of beauty, of homage and prayer.

But the spectre was vicious with snarl and gnash;
And he ripped skald's flesh veining to metaphorical soul 
To slither and gnaw then tunnel and mole
Through the poet's heart to tatter and slash.

The deeper the monster's bite; the truer the poet's quill
Finding in the wrath of abhorrence the aliment of voluptions' song.
With dissecting phrases of sensual lyric, the battle was scarred and long.
But fangs of despair & clutch of megrim make no match for concord's will.

Thus Bereftos fell, though not to death;
But to plunder and vamp until choler's next contest.
And curst the poet who brought glimmer to black's hatechest.
And the poet tread on to idyll and limn of starshine and breath.


III
Conundrum in speech to ponder and foretell,
Savoring and sharing in every life's hell;
Feeling and bleeding in passion and pain
Touching and kissing and tilling life's grain.

Leaving signs of hope or utter of cheer
Forecast of gloom or tale of tear;
"That which is spoken is that which is real:
Change or salvation is within thy own will."
Bereftos lay deep as the prophet drew near. 
Assuming the form of a coffin—the sibyl's only fear.
Death not so much the fear as absence of life,
Locked away from human glory or strife.

This weakness alone did the oracle show;
So Bereftos the Cunning fashioned the casket as blank as milk and snow.
And the four walls he sprang around in midst of the prophet's stride
To banish and void him from the world outside.

Confident of his conquest, the monster paraded proud
To his refuge of darkness to tailor a shroud
And cover the prophet's place of rest
Then return to his sanctum to plot the next contest.

But far below the coffin's bier
Lived the prophet in vacuumed air.
Meditation in the empty gave form in the white;
The prophet again became a ray of light.

All things then are kept visions inside
To be called forth when needed to guide.
"That which is spoken is that which is real,"
Said the prophet, "Change or salvation is within thy own will." 

IV
From unseen refuge veiled in shadowy reflection,
The penman assessed Bereftos in each battle and competition.
So he knew the monster's tactics and style
And he knew the creature's ways to beguile.

The demon had already begun to build snare,
When the writer teased from his shade to catch the monster's stare.
Though his own mesh was still now woven, Bereftos took bait
And followed the plotmaster in a rage of hate.

Dulled by avarice for the writers' demise
And weakened by lost battles from other piercing eyes,
the monster schemed victory, while lost in daze
Following his enemy deeper into maze.

Fired with foresight of bagging his game
And clawing and chewing and burning every remain,
Bereftos followed deeper, long after he was lost;
His mind miles ahead in dreamt holocaust.

The writer doubled back and rewove horror's net,
Lacing each strand of greed, doubt, hate and regret
To loop the holes in Bereftos' unfinished snare
And lead the monster to his own trap there.

A tired monster, his cunning worn,
Followed the scribe, never hearing the angel's horn.
Then the writer paused and Bereftos leapt at his prey.
But his own net sprung and blocked his way.

The monster fell with howl and groan
And the writer watched it all . . . then left alone.
Bereftos fought, though worn and tattered; 
a noble fight with escape all that mattered.

V
A battered Bereftos eluded his own enmesh,
but in his heart pounded his hate/hunger for flesh.
And he stumbled and rambled bitter blind,
His oath of calamity, waste and ruin guiding his mind.

It was by chance that the musician just happened to be
Fretting his lute, resting under that very tree
That the killer had chosen as a spot to repose
And respired his strength to rematch his foes.

The musician's yodel mixed with the lute's trill
To bring walls of concord, driving insanity to the demon of desperation's will.
With chords of agape and psalms of breath
The weakened giant forgot his mission of death.

The closer he moved to the minstrel's song
the deeper entwined became his right and wrong,
Till concord ruled and desperation fell
Without a carnate to hold its spell.

VI
The musician's path of psalm and yodel
Led him to a fork where the writer would wait.
And together they talked of their conquests of hate.
Then they met with the poet, who told of the same in limn and carol.

The artists strolled together, though each was alone,
Until they reached the prophet's crypt near Bereftos' tattered throne.

And the prophet arose and was born again
Foretelling the future and of things that had been.

The temple of concord then was ruled by the four
Who spread to dust and lived in the wind
To ride in time and spark in the eyes of every friend;
To keep sentinel against another carnate from Bereftos' door.

Alone, no one artist could have brought the demon's defeat,
But united, concord's house was complete.
so they spread their souls to roam with skies
To fall when needed on myriad eyes.

Each cast alone with ten thousand more . . . 
But each knowing that sodality is the ship's only shore.

So given to cosmos with souls division
Walk The Poet, the Prophet, The Writer and The Musician.

Live Hard; Die Young

I woke up this morning

and war was popular again;

Heroes wore business suits;

women wanted to be like men;

Black wanted to be like white;

And everything I'd lived for

was a dream on a 20-year night!

A lean then bloated king

was finally understood

like a sinking eastern star

that sold consumer goods.

And an outlaw generation

died like billy-the-kid.

Live Hard!

Die Young!

And always say your prayers

before you go to bed at night.

The demons in the crypt house

were counting out the money.

Queens at the drag strip

were sucking on their honey.

Land was raped and so was I.

If you take it up the ass

you're likely going to die.

There's a very thin line

between pleasure and pain.

I don't know if that boy's a genius

or if he is insane.

Live Hard!

Die Young!

And always say your prayers

before you go to bed at night.

Live Hard!

Die Young!

March 1991

Ashes Of The Fire

Like the winter always follows the fall;
Like a hobo who first hears the whippoorwill's call;
The ashes of a fire will keep glowing on
Long after the useful flames are dead and gone.

The old mean just laid there dying.
His family gathered 'round and they were all crying.
He looked up at me and he reached out his hand.
Somehow I didn't want to understand that . . . 

Like the winter always follows the fall;
Like a hobo who first hears the whippoorwill's call;
The ashes of a fire will keep glowing on
Long after the useful flames are dead and gone.

Well the roadway was filled with the mourners line;
Stone-faced and sober as if they all were blind.
No one saw it coming except the wine-os, Gordon and me;
They were too busy living to think about being free.

Like the winter always follows the fall;

Like a hobo who first hears the whippoorwill's call;
The ashes of a fire will keep glowing on
Long after the useful flames are dead and gone.

In those last days before they laid him in the ground,
He would yell at the children and chase them all around.
Then he'd catch them and beat them till they begged on their knees.
But they stood strong again long after he slept beneath the trees.

Like the winter always follows the fall;
Like a hobo who first hears the shippoorwill's call;
The ashes of a fire will keep glowing on
Long after the useful flames are dead and gaone.
June 1977

©1977 and 1991 Gary Green (ASCAP)
A version of this song is part of the Smithsonian Institution's permanent folklief collection in Washington, DC in the Folkways Co9llection and appears on the Folkways Records album, "Gary Green -- Allegory." (1977)
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There Ain't No Easy Way


I rolled all my clothes into the pack on my back.
And I stood with my thumb on the road for three days.
I breathed enough monxide to start a bus of my own.
And every word I spoke began with, "I'll be damned."

New York City streets turn to wood then cobblestone.
And the acid from the pits of hell has eaten all along
Where the poet stood on the corner fifteen years ago
Sprinkling prophetic pryers to a world trying to grow.

New York City ain't no place to be
Searching for the gods you'll never see
Looking for a dream in the devil's hide-a-way.

The junkie on the corner is staring up at me,
Begging me to take him for a ride.
Sidewalk speakers are blaring some song I don't wanna hear.
And across the street blows yesterday's magazine.


Where the sidewalks turned grey with age to day they were poured,
And sisters in the night lay their bodies on the street;
There's a wise-eyed cowboy wandering, trying to sing his songs.
And a spectre of tomorrow hums along.

New York City ain't no place to be
Searching for the gods you'll never see
Looking for a dream in the devil's hide-a-way
And never knowing there ain't no easy way.

The faces of the crucified meet the face3s of the kings.
But neither stops to speak as they walk by.
And the cowboy's words are heard only by his boots.
And they echo, "There ain't no easy way."

New York City ain't no place to be
Searching for the gods you'll never see
Looking for a dream in the devil's hide-a-way
And never knowing there ain't no easy way.
September 1976
©1976 and 1991 Gary Green (ASCAP)
A version of this song is part of the Smithsonian Institution's permanent folklife collection in Washington, DC in the Folkways Collection and appears on the Folkways Records album, "Gary Green -- These Six Strings Neutralize The Tools Of Oppression." (1976)

No Great Loss


Death stepped on the train at four am
Betty Tucker stepped on right behind him.
No one was the hunger in his eyes.
He was wearing his street disguise.
His leather jacket had a silver zipper.
Betty had been out the whole night long
Trying to get her daughter to come back home.
He left the car with the only two dollars whe owned;
Left her bleeding in the car alone.

But it was no great loss anyway.
She lived full and free everyday.
I don't mean to sound so cold,
But, my God, the woman was 85 years old.

Geoffry Morgan did his banking by the mail.
He had ever since his health began to fail.
His check would come every third Saturday.
His only pension was what the government would pay.
His two-twenty-five a month did just fine
Between the rent, the power and the food stamp line.
Then came the bite and the sting of the winter cold
And Georffry couldn't afford number two heating oil.
They found his body frozen through
When the man came to collect the rent over due.

But it was no great loss anyway.
He lived full and free everyday.
I don't mean to sound so cold,
But, my God, the man was 75 years old.

Katie Campbell lived alone without a friend.
She kept her world inside a bottle of gin.
Her family was gone and her children dead.

Love was only memories locked inside her head.
So it took her bottle to make the day go around.
And every night she'd wash it down.
First it was two, then three or four.
But Katie won't be drinking anymore.
She once was a queeen as a rich man's wife.
But she drank herself to death to go back to that life.

But it was no great loss anyway.
She lived full and free everyday.
I don't mean to sound so cold,
But, my God, the womand was 65 years old.

Huntington Jarvis build an empire.
They said he was a king.
The shrewdness of his business
Sparkled in the diamonds in his rings.
Said he did nothing but roll in his wealth.
Maybe that's what happened to his health.
Sure, he'd stepped on a few people coming up
And lost some friends making his luck.
His heart gave way one afternoon.
He died all alone in a 900-dollar hotel room.

But it was no great loss anyway.
He lived full and free everyday.
I don't mean to sound so cold,
But, my God, the man was 55 years old.

Ellen Corley had never been away from home this far.
She came to the city to be a model or a TV star.
She rented a one-room apartment on her own.
And took a job as a waitress to pay for this home.
She entertained some agents in her room,
But spent most of her time in gloom.
She walked through the park depressed at night,
Unaware of the shadows of fright.
They found her body stripped before long.
Her throat was slit about a block from her home.

But it was no great loss anyway.
She lived full and free everyday.
I don't mean to sound so cold,
But, my God, the woman was 25 years old.
January 1977

©1977 and 1991 Gary Green (ASCAP)
A version of this song is part of the Smithsonian Institution's permanent folklife collection in Washington, DC in the Folkways Collection and appears on the Folkways Records album, "Gary Green -- Allegory." (1977)

I Wore His Gun

When I was but a boy, my mama said, "come son
How that your father' dead and gone we need a man and a gun."
So at my ma's insistence and at my own dismay,
I tied on the six-gun my ma had put away.

I wore his gun.
I wore his gun.

Now everywhere I'd ramble that gun would be tacked to my side.
And everywhere I'd roam I'd try to forget how my pa had died.
But it's hard to forget the things a man has done;
Especially when I'm sitting here wearing his gun,

I wore his gun.
I wore his gun.

Now every town I'd come to the people knew my name.
And every town I'd come to they knew my father's fame.
So I'd listen to their stories of guns tha tspit fire and lead.
And I'd listen to their stories of men who now lay dead.

I wore his gun.
I wore his gun.

My father laid a lot of men in prison; he laid a lot more in their grave.
But he never took a man's life unless another life was to be saved.
He ran in through the saloon door when he heard the woman's cry.
And with the decoy and bullet in the back, they made my father die.

I wore his gun.
I wore his gun.

Now I stand at the saloon door, the bartender to see.
All I do is mention my name and every6 eye is on me.
Longer than he gave my father, I give him to the count of one.
I put a bullet through his head and then I hung up that cursed gun.

I wore his gun.
I wore his gun.

May 1974
©1976 and 1991 Gary Green (ASCAP)
A version of this song is part of the Smithsonian Institution's permanent folklife collection in Washington, DC in the Folkways Collection and appears on the Folkways Records album, "Gary Green -- These Six Strings Neutralize The Tools Of Oppression." (1976)

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Snakebite Poison


General Sherman burned the city, lord, but he could not burn the sin.
He left a slimy serpent breeding a fiery cross to rise again.
People at home in Georgia don't give a damn for the hooded clan.
But there's a laughing bastard dancing on the graves of the lost 
children.

In the flaming shadow of a neon cross
Beneath the halo of the stars and bars
A sultry, slimy serpent lay a-breeding.
No one thought to ask his name.
No one cared from where he came.
And no one thought to blame it on the law.

Snakebite poison; don't let the blood take it to your brain.
Snakebite poison; hatred's venom is enough to drive you insane.



To lay the blame for this kind of hate, the hooded man is not alone.
And the children in the murder-schools just repeat what they hear at 
home.
So outlaw the fools: that's thefirst step, but that's not where the 
trouble began.
If you want to stop the serpent, you've got to find out who profits 
from a Ku Klux Klan.

For the serpent's an institution.
His fangs are deep set in.
Ain't but one way to de-head him:
You've got to drain the slime
Where the bastard learned to swim.

Snakebite poison; don't let the blood take it to your brain.
Snakebite poison; hatred's venom is enough to drive you insane.


July 1977-June 1981
©1977, 1981 and 1991 Gary Green (ASCAP)
A version of this song is part of the Smithsonian Institution's permanent folklife collection in Washington, DC in the Folkways Collection and appears on the Folkways Records album, "Gary Green -- Still At Large." (1981)

Annie With Her Violin

Taking quarters on the corner
Flipper to a one-time salad bowl;
Some folks sell the bodies, Lord,
I only sell my soul
To the strangers from the towers
Who'd rather her "Sweet Georgia Brown"
brown, brown.
They're going to the fountains
Where the water never goes down.

Soldier standing by the door,
Green stripe on his side.
Jesus Christ, I wonder where
Old doorment go when they die.
I was sitting on the 4th step at St. Marks
Sipping holy water and reading anewspaper
I found on a subway ride, ride, ride.
You should see that solid gold
Crucifix they've got inside.

Annie stood on the same corner
Playing her violin
Till her music picked up and
Blew away with a hot gust of wind.
But Annie kept on playing a song
Over at the sunken cafe in a hole.
I wonder if Mr. Rockefeller's atlas
Is really made of solid gold.

Big man sat behind his desk
Way up on the 9th floor.
He wouldn't answer my telegram
So I sent him 19 more.
But Annie kept on playing a song
About her brother in the penitentiary.
Maybe if I stand here long enough
Someone will come by and recognize me.
Summer 1977
©1977 and 1991 Gary Green (ASCAP)
A version of this song is part of the Smithsonian Institution's permanent folklife collection in Washington, DC in the Folkways Collection and appears on the Folkways Records album, "Gary Green --Allegory." (1977)

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Lower Education

Click-it.
There was a call on the phone:
Just a word or so and then it was dead.
Click-it
It might have been Elvis in hiding
Or Mr. Mojo Risin' playing with my head.
Click-it. Click-it.
Business cost analysis
Or English one-o-one;
It don't matter what's your major,
The damage has been done.
Click-it. Click-it
Lower education
Despite what's in the name.
Those who can't get it up
Play the teaching game.
Click-it. Click-it.
Lower education 
That's what's wrong with you.
The only thing unanswered
Is who id doing who.


Click-it. Click-it.
There was a call on the phone.
Just a word or so and then it was dead.
Click-it.
I knew just how to answer it:
Like all the leanring I'd been fed.
Click-it. Click-it.
Click-it.
LEARN-it.
You can't do it without the money.
Learn-it.
So spend your life making money to do it.
Learn-it.
But you can't do it Because you need the time To make the money
To do it.
Learn-it. Learn-it. Learn-it.
Learn-it. Learn-it.
No!
March 1991