White Plains Bayou Blues #471

It's a figment of your rhetoric
A figment of White Plains Bayou Blues, number 471

The summer of love was a glove and a hand in a case, was deformed
Two of the fingers worked, other three were dead, the left didn't know what the right did
Maybe if we chant the rain will stop
Maybe if we chant the rain will stop
The summer of hate, a big mistake, I was June, she was July
In August the leaves all turned to a children's choir crying
My left hand was encased in my board, in my right a cigarette that I couldn't get lit
Who can differentiate, who enjoyed the love, and who got gunned down in the Birmingham swamps?
Who can justify, who passed around the love, while those build in hatred
The turnstile wouldn't turn
The turnstile wouldn't turn
The turnstile wouldn't turn
I was there, and they pulled the cross, and they laid on the railroad tracks
A naked dead man was down on those tracks, and who's to say who encouraged him
Maybe himself
Maybe himself

White men beat up in St. Petersburg, they're talking like a black
Black men beat up in freedom's court, they're talking like a black
In the summer of love, in the candy box, a dozen pink roses stick a needle in your back
Once a great doctor, now a drunken hack, who knows where the time goes
Mary Anne
Mary Anne
Mary Anne

The summer of hate, fell into fall, winter, spring
She gave you the habit, she gave her a ring
And a choir of children, how happy they sing
The one on the left, can't see it right
Maybe if we chant, the rain will stop
Spaceships to Mars, the canary did sing
Spaceships to nowhere, the bullfrog croaked
And I was there when they pulled the cross, they laid on the river tracks
A naked dead man found on those tracks, and who's to say who encouraged him
Maybe himself
Maybe himself
Maybe himself

A child who distinguished hate from love, hippies in my yard
A hundred dollar bash, while the canary sings
Spaceship to the soul, and the bullfrog has sex with his wife
A teenager gets burned with a hot butter knife, while a clansman eats toast in hell
And old Jim the booth man, black as coal, gets slapped around by Bill Hickok
The summer of reason shot through the trees, and a ballad's cast, the audience laughs
And Hollywood burns like a tire, and all the actors' faces, fueled by suspicion
Put it out with their smiles
Put it out with their smiles
Put it out with their smiles
And the riverboat keeps on chugging, its water wheel's spinning
Who knows where the time goes, it shuffles you
Who knows where your mother is, do you even care?
Forlorn and forgotten, and a cannonball flies, right up through your soul
And up through the clouds, and into the sky
The face reflects a summer of love, a summer of dresses, of linen and lace
A virgin young girl, and a smiling face
I sure like to keep it that way
I sure like to keep it that way
And I was there when they built that box, they dug a hole in the ground
Aunts and uncles I hadn't seen for years were there
And old friends were gathering around
Old friends were gathering around
Hippies in the yard, a hundred dollar bash
Who built the iron maiden and the studded lash?
Who fired the cannon that crushed my spirit?
Who killed that guy in Biloxi just because he was black?
Who ordered the bombing of the village while the children played dice in the hut?
And who sewed that thing, that black velvet glove?
It sure didn't seem like the summer of love
It sure didn't seem like the summer of love
It sure didn't seem like the summer of love
I was there when they built the cross, they laid on the railroad tracks
A naked dead man was found on the tracks
And who's to say encouraged him, maybe himself
And who's to who say encouraged him, maybe himself

White Plains Bayou Blues number 471
Take one