I always had a soft spot for story songs — too much of one, perhaps. I even quite liked “Tie a Yellow Ribbon,” until overplay and dubious associations ruined it permanently.
It was inevitable that I’d try writing some of my own.
NO TIME
I was at the rifle range with a brand-new gun
When someone in the party got a PORC411:
A pot bust at a random routine traffic stop
With extra charges really being stacked on top.
We talked about a protest for our friend’s arrest,
But I was just about to overtake my personal best.
To storm the jail and wave some signs would be okay,
But you can see, there really wasn’t time that day.
Good time, good time, good time, good time . . .
So many activist events, it makes me dizzy–
I can’t do all or most or very many.
In fact, my life is usually so damn busy,
That weeks and weeks go by without my doing any.
I’d meant to come and watch proceedings at the court,
To show the judge my pal had plenty of support.
But things don’t always happen quite the way you’d planned —
Some friends got tickets for a hot new Boston band.
I remembered the trial miles down the road.
It would have been a great trip if the band had showed.
You never know what new surprises fate will bring;
Too bad there isn’t time enough for everything.
No time, no time, no time, no time . . .
“You never write,” my friends would nag, “You never visit.”
They’re right, and I kept meaning to get to it.
It’s not like days have forty hours in ’em, is it?
But who needs me, when everybody else will do it?
It was one of those debauched and drunken doped-up nights.
I was cruising down the highway and I saw blue lights.
To make a long story short, they took me to the jail,
But no one came to see me or to post my bail.
The court-appointed lawyer pushed the trial through
It would have been nice to see a friend or two.
I must’ve seemed a drifting loner with a thirst for crime,
So now I’m in the local slammer serving time.
Do time, do time, do time, do time . . .
My friends’ desertion really had me getting
Angry, but my conscience said, “Ahem–
No one’s to blame but you if you’re regretting
That when they needed you, you weren’t there for them.”
My friend was on a hunger strike and hadn’t eaten,
And died in the infirmary from being beaten.
I’m more alone than ever, but on visiting day,
No one seems to want to bother to come out this way.
I send a lot of letters, but response is thin.
I’m getting back about as much as I’d put in.
My life’s completely turned around, I’m here to tell:
(slowly) I’ve got nothing but a lot of time inside this cell.
Time, time, time, time, time, time, time, time . . .
If there are any melody-makers who want to try setting it to music, please get in touch. My own inner ear hears a sing-song chant somewhat similar to “Dead Man’s Curve.”
. . . And if anyone sees a little of himself in this song– Well, that’s the reason for writing them!
