1930s inspired recession song.
Well, gather 'round, kids, if you ain't heard the news-
we're in a recession that just won't diffuse.
it's down to the time when we each get to choose
between losin' and failin' to get.
Oh, poor men a poets, come one and come all,
we'll gather to watch the economy fall-
it's like a parade, except everyone crawls
because we're all crippled from debt.
Like a vagrant, a wayfarer,
a derelict doomed to his failure,
the market holds us like a jailor,
without any way to make bail.
I'm on hard luck; I am beaten,
with no way to win without cheatin',
no money for adequate eatin'
and worry the size of a whale.
well, thank you, chase bank, for the bills that you sent,
I'm down to just pennies, I can't pay my rent.
My diet's potatoes and spuds from potatoes,
baked, mashed, or heavily stewed.
Well, who needs shelter in times like these?
except for, I guess, when it's zero degrees;
we'd all be happy as dogs without fleas
if we didn't need money for food.
I'm a pauper from a fable
with no goose to lay gold in my stable;
I'm the gambler who's broke at the table,
a magician who's on his last trick.
Like a phoenix unarisen,
giving thanks that there's no debtors' prison,
I'm one paycheck from hopping a railcar
with a handkercheif tied to a stick.
Well, here in the midwest, we're feeling the void-
no jobs in chicago or all of detroit-
it's like we're the punchline of someone's exploit,
but nobody told us the joke.
Our money's like water that slips down the drain,
but I heard on wall street, they're makin' it rain-
if they, and the bankers, are what we call brokers,
then why is it us who are broke?
I'm like flatland with a crater,
building debt like a loss inundater;
I'm a down-and-out Dickens narrator
whose luck hasn't yet turned around.
A folk hero left with little,
set to solve an impossible riddle:
if the bottom's now moved to the middle,
how much farther am I to fall down?
Oh, fear not, my friends, though dark is the night,
I've read the old fables, they turn out all right-
this tunnel seems too long to every have light,
but we'll make it through, wait and see.
There's always an old man who gives magic swords-
or a king who needs saving and offers rewards,
until then, I'll meet you somewhere out of doors,
by a fire, with an old can of beans.
We'll be ramblers; we'll be singin'
drown our troubles with dancin' and drinkin',
though the creditors calls will be ringin',
we will soon lose the use of our phones.
we'll be rovers, carpetbaggin',
set to slay the impossible dragons;
if the hard times insist on attackin'
then we might as well not fall alone.
from Slightly Dirty Songs
released October 26, 2012
guitar, vocals, harmonica written, performed and recorded by Rhea Mendoza.
all rights reserved