I'm going to learn the bagpipes
And start my own band
We'll march up and down the street
Making quite a stand
They will hear us coming
They sure won't understand
Why a bloody southerner
Would want to start a bagpipe band
I'm going to learn the bagpipes
And start my own band
We'll march up and down the street
Making quite a stand
They will hear us coming
They sure won't understand
Why a bloody southerner
Would want to start a bagpipe band
He moves in the crowd
As a sparrow
Murmurating on the edges
Fluttering down on the wing tips
Of sorrow
And he wishes he could sing with the larks
Wishes he could, but he can't
Has his wing been clipped
Is he too tight-lipped
Or does he prefer to sit in the dark
Like an owl?
I can't tell
He doesn't howl at the moon
As I know
But does he scowl at June
When she shows
Him all her festoon
And flowers in boughs
Does he prefer the country fair
Does he dance in the mid-summer air
Listen to the pipes and the fiddle
Is he a musical type or a riddle?
Who really knows of the mangle man
The beaten-can man, the beer guzzler
Or dog muzzler, upright blues man
They just call him the mangle-man
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B minor take me back
Down lanes so sweet
When life was fine
And things were meet
B minor to the E, we'll eat
The flower blossom in our mouths so sweet
The honey suckle on the boughs
The sway of tails of the cows
And grasses green and fields replete
With light summer rain
And swaying wheat
Oh B minor
But I know it's gone
It's only a line in a song
A harmony sung
In castles of clouds
Where I wander
with brow un-furrowed