Van Dyke Parks - Song Cycle (1968) by Van Dyke Parks (보컬) on maniadb.com

That's the tape that we made,
But I'm sad to say it never made the grade.

That was me, third guitar;
I wonder where the others are.

I sold the guitar today...
I never did play much anyway.

Vine Street.

We used to live there on Vine Street.
She made perfume in the back of the room
And me and my group, we'd sit out on the stoop
And we'd play for her the songs she liked best
To have us play, on Vine Street.

Vine Street, the crack of the backbeat on Vinestreet.
Swingin' along on the wings of a song
And I'll lie in, secure, self-righteous, and sure
Why we've things to say that the people would pay to hear us play, on Vine Street.

By Palm Desert to market to buy.
Tenderfoot up to date palms of the real estate.
By Palm Desert springs often run dry.

I came west unto Hollywood, never-never land.
Juxtaposed to B.B.D. and O. Beyond San Fernando on hillside manors on the banks of toxicity those below and those above the same.

Dreams are still born in Hollywood I don't understand.
Just suppose the youngster knows he's had a good deal of fortune and up through the babble on the fair banks complicity,
Buy your leave or stay beyond the game.

Palm Desert not fade away.
Palm Desert I wish I could stay.
Palm Desert sages abound.
So head your head to the ground round.

Meanwhile in the wild west of Hollywood age is losing hold.
Inasmuch as you are touched to have withstood by the very old search for the truth within the bounds of toxicity.
Left unsung so I have strung the frame.

Widows walk ado walk on as in years of yore.
The thought of you divided thus!
It just maybe due to discuss in cold turkey mourning in the willows.
Or was it the wind.
You recollect we all suspect the mortal door will open the sore mind.
The widows walk and wail among the willows.
Widows walk ado walk on.

Widows face the future.
Factories face the poor.
The fact remains the peril strains the mind a bit.
To have done and quit with it widows walk and wail among the willows.
Widows walk ado walk on.

I'm guessing this is called civil,
Regrettably strife.
So lessen your appalled pall mall and middle life.
Long last a hymn to Him to help you on your way.

Contented is the boat.
By chance how forlorn the shore.
I've meant to take the chance to turn you 'bout the floor so trim the prim the lame have rose to say widows walk and wail among the willows.
Widows walk and do-si-do the willows.
Widows walk ado walk on.

What's up Laurel Canyon,
Hay.
What is up in Laurel Canyon the seat of the beat to greet and eat at the heart of their companion way.
That's up Laurel Canyon.
And what is up the canyon will even eventually come down.

Tracks of the beaten in automobile pound the from nine to fivers round a long line of drivers wind to dine in the divers and dandy lie.
One line bled in tandom from some new hatched deals.

Cracks in the heat and then caught by the wheel catch the country store feel for the hackamore crew view the crackerbare coterie standing by.
One line bred randyrand and too few wretched meals.

Parks

He is not your run of the mill garden variety Alabama country faire
Left on Silver Lake he keeps a small apartment top an Oriental food store there
He returned from Alabama to see what he could see.
Off the record he is hungry though he works hard in his Alabama country fair
I should think he'd fade away the way that Bohemians often bare the frigid air
He returned from Alabama to see what he could see.
Constant commentary by the wayside
Nowadays them country boys don't cotton much to one two three four
Rest your team. Work out in the All Golden
You will know why hayseeds go back to the country.
Constant calm might still our stately union
Nowadays a Yankee dread not take his time to wend to sea
Forget to bear your arms in the All Golden
You will know why hayseeds go back to the country
Might as well not 'low for one more go round
That's all folks. Them hayseeds go back to the country
Ja git it? Alright.

Yet all my dreams shall be nearer my God to Thee
Nearer my God to Thee. Nearer to Thee.

Our lowly liquor lobby longs to back a road to old time songs.
Biblebelts worn from here and after all were born in the know.

So rally round awhile Jim Crow for I thought I'd like to show they can recall the Alamo way down in old Mexico.

I left Academia amid sixty-two.
Was it sixty-one scholar was cooled from the U.
Doubtless more on sore wing than prayer I up and just withdrew to the wander round there.

I was there upon a four poster there.
Mind tousled I came to bear some thoughts from the past amid a dash of influenza.
And then I came to see in baggage the memories of truncated souvenirs.
The war years.
High moon I said high moon lighted high moon eye to my moon.

Far beyond the blue mist enveloped lawn the blanketed night comes on.
The champagne is dead and gone.
The forest around sensitive sound forest primeval.
Through the panes cloud buttermilk war remains and twisted cross war refrains lunatic so high moon I said high moon lighted high moon eye to my moon.

Your age will most probably carry away the letters enveloped in carrion.
Vague unpleasantries of the war.
May your son's progenitorship of the state haphazardly help him to carry on.
God send your son safe home to you.
High Moon.
You're eye to my moon.

What's up Laurel Canyon,
Hay.
What is up in Laurel Canyon the seat of the beat to greet and eat at the heart of their companion way.
That's up Laurel Canyon.
And what is up the canyon will even eventually come down.

Tracks of the beaten in automobile pound the from nine to fivers round a long line of drivers wind to dine in the divers and dandy lie.
One line bled in tandom from some new hatched deals.

Cracks in the heat and then caught by the wheel catch the country store feel for the hackamore crew view the crackerbare coterie standing by.
One line bred randyrand and too few wretched meals.

Strike up the band brother hand me another bowl of your soul.
Brother has a long way to go maybe baby should know his cotton mouth is too slow for the song of the forgotten South,
Just don't hang us up here.

Step by step by please though proletarian am I.
By chance am you
"wine git out de way o'de darkies."
You'd better hustle up a storm to sing this Caucasian lullaby.
Sleep oh my darling now sleep.

Draw freehand over Iron Curtain.
Stalk up on the trim bamboo.
To footridge the bullrushes certain to know law,
American express.
No Caucasian flair for flim-flam will do.
Step by please step by.

Weigh the small advance.
There is still a chance.
Let's assume that we form a company men.
No mention should the pass in revue of the show.
Just understand that I prefer to be dead than red white or blue as I write sturdy crew.
As you view these few Russians whose true dawn came to view long ago.
So I think that you'd better strike up the band brother hand me another bowl of your soul.
The song of the forgotten South just don't hang us up here.
Here the unknown is at hand and not far from my heel a tarbaby feel for the Czar.
For those who are lonely well the Black sea is callin' Georgia's Stalin has fallen so you all come here.
We now are near to the end.
If you stay with the show say we all had to go to hasten to jar the few nations too far gone to step by.

A Southwester in the yard invested with the garden and camped in concentration of a tall lilac to peel the rust off purple arbor.
Time is not the main thought from under the rain wrought from roots that brought us coots to hoot and haul us all back to the prime ordeal.
Dust off Pearl Harbor time.