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Lyrics
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He wrote a three-chord song.
He played it all night long.
He sang it bold and strong,
like a Kerouac King Kong.
Beneath the squalor of the city street,
armed with his guitar and a bongo beat,
he sang of hope below the urban slum,
lifting our spirits like a Dharma Bum.
He sang a crack pot tune.
He howled it to the moon,
crazed as a caged baboon,
or a Kerouac cartoon.
He sang of Hitler, Bush and Chiang Kai-Shek,
the swollen bellies and the national debt,
the cost of freedom, the American way,
Martin Luther and and KKK.
Loud as a magpie,
feeling the buzz,
frantic and wild-eyed
he was.
He played a crude descant
I watched him rave and rant
he struggled to enchant
just like a Kerouac transplant.
I watched him busking as I paid my fare
that twitching cat with the maniacal stare,
screaming verse into the passing crowd,
who circumvented like a twisting shroud.
Proud as a peacock,
mocking the fuzz,
high as a moon rock,
he was.
I heard him ringing out his last refrain
In syncopation to the final train
Orphaned quickly in the sparks of light
Molly coddled by the breast of night.
He wrote a three-chord song.
He played it all night long.
He sang it bold and strong,
like a Kerouac King Kong.
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Credits
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Lyrics Credits: Jeff Root
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Music Credits: Jeff Root
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Producer Credits: Jeff Root
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Publisher Credits: Blackhole Publishing
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Performance Credits: Jeff Root
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Label Credits: Root Cellar Records
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Metadata
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Song Length: 3:34
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Primary Genre: Rock-Alternative
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Secondary Genre: Folk-Alternative
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Tempo: Medium Fast (131 - 150)
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Lead Vocal: Male Vocal
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Language: English
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Era: 2000 and later
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