Stories

I’m not one to lie to others

But one must entertain

When the tale isn’t as good as it should be

I’ll upholster the truth without shame

I’ll remember the feelings

And most of the facts

I make the rest of it up

Based on how I would act

I’ve got stories to tell

To regale and amaze you

They all really happened

And almost all of them are true

I don’t tell the big lies

The ones that go wrong

I lightly embellish the real tales

To move them along

If the bit is a bad one
And I can’t sugar coat it

My memory will crap out

And I’ll simply forget it

I’ve got stories to tell

To regale and amaze you

They all really happened

And almost all of them are true

My Name

I’m as shapely a ship as ever there’s been

With a prow like a swan, my stern has to be seen

My hull is white and my topsides the same

Eighty feet of waterline, and Mayan’s my name

I’ve made passage from Avalon to far Otahiete

My helm is light and my lines are sweet

My voyages have been sung and consigned to fame

Eighty feet of waterline, and Mayan’s my name

I had an owner and master, my skipper he was

The crew and the passengers all called him Croz

I took him to the Old Spanish Main

Eighty feet of waterline, and Mayan’s my name

I’m as shapely a ship as ever there’s been

With prow like a swan, my stern has to be seen

My hull is white and my topsides the same

Eighty feet of waterline, and Mayan’s my name

Flyover

Levon…Black Dog

Rhiannon…God Bless The Grass

The classic rock

Drifts by as the counties pass

At altitude

No song stays in range for long

They slide away

Just when the signal gets strong

The hopes and dreams and baseball teams

Of these small towns aren’t all they seem

Ohio below

Checkerboard farms laid out neat

Prom Queens, Corn Kings

Seen from thirty thousand feet

Seger…Eagles

The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band

Songs forgotten

Now remembered as you land

The hopes and dreams and baseball teams

Of these small towns aren’t all they seem

Climbing Mount Popo In Boat Shoes

Three chavos leave Cuernavaca

Into the mountains, into the past,

Packed into a battered Renault Twelve

Losing the century fast

A land where no Spanish is spoken

Where the Old Ways still hold true

They passed a church draped in corn dolls

With doors no one ever went through

Climbing Mount Popo in boat shoes

It seemed like the thing to do

Climbing Mount Popo in boat shoes

They didn’t know what they’d go through

The ruts are deeper the closer you get

The mountain is candied with snow

They walked on the path to guide Simon

As he piloted the Renault

When they reached the Paso de Cortes

Where the stout man viewed the might

Of the empire he came to conquer

They camped and spent the night

Stout Cortes took a flyer

And burned his ships on the strand

Set off inland with his horses and men

To conquer a whole new land

He had 13 horses and 500 men

A creole mistress, a cannon or two

With this he captured the world’s greatest city

And we were Conquistadores too

The mountain loomed over us smoking

As we started our march to the plain

The women and children driven before us

And men just waiting to be slain

Moctezuma tried playing the long game

And he knew right away what it cost

His life was forfeit to Cortes,

His entire Empire was lost

Sleeping eluded the climbers

The altitude was too high

The headaches, and the ancient dreams

Turned them out of their bags before five

The path to the top is a long one

It curls round the cone like a snake

Taking fifteen miles round to achieve but four up

But the climb is too steep to take straight

They got as far as fifteen thousand feet,

Just three thousand feet from the top

Thin air, the cold, their sunburned tongues

Conspired to force them to stop

El Popo is one serious mountain

Fifth highest on the continent

They decided to climb it like children

No gear, no warm clothes, no tent

They were the Conquistadores of old

They’d burned their ships on the beach

To make sure the decision to return to the pass

Was one not easily reached

They knew now why the Conqueror

Had stayed in Mexico to grow old

He’s seen the greatest thing in the world

Heard the greatest story told

Climbing Mount Popo in boat shoes

It seemed like the thing to do

Climbing Mount Popo in boat shoes

They didn’t know what they’d go through

37,000 Feet

You can see every baseball diamond in Iowa

From 37,000 feet

At night they’re all lit up like gems

At the edges of towns so neat

It’s the same in Illinois, Ohio, across the Midwest

Islands of people and dreams

Each town crowns a Corn King

Each crowns a Harvest Queen

The lives they live now and forever

Are deeply engraved in the land

The forests are gone now, the plains will be too

But for now they’re making a stand

On the Fourth of July the night landscape

Explodes with lights far below

And each town becomes a sparkled brooch

Alight with an urgent glow

Joni Mitchell sits in the front cabin

A couple of rows from you

She smiles when you send a note over

And asks you over to talk to her too

You said there were fireworks out the window

She said yes, she had seen them as well

She wrote Amelia after a flight on this route

A story she needed to tell

You asked her about This Flight Tonight

Did she like Nazareth’s cover?

You talked of fly-fishing in Wyoming,

Your heads close together like lovers

The lights of Toronto in the distance

In the dark, descending over the lake

Are both hopeful and depressing

You’re home, but it’s the same place

Ramp, arrivals, a smoke and a cab

And you’re back in your life once again

The hopes and the dreams and the baseball teams

Of the Midwest are remembered in vain

You can see every baseball diamond in Iowa

From 37,000 feet

At night they’re all lit up like gems

At the edges of towns so neat