Cold War

We were spies in a foreign land
I was a fugitive, running just as fast as I can
You were a bird on a bludgeoned wing, busted flat in Dallas
Dancing for a diamond ring

You asked me if I’d been here before
As I regaled you with memories of my melancholy whores
You crossed your legs and lit a cigarette
Talked about your mama, and said as your eyes got wet

I’m tired of fighting in this cold war
Nobody wins that’s just daddy’s drunken folklore
I’m leaving this town tomorrow you can come if you want

In the armpit of Arkansas
Where the river split and sang neath the stillborn stars
You started bitching we were out of beer
As we danced real close and came upon a midnight clear

In the morning with the mountain dew
And the sun’s cruel eye, the day after Waterloo
Lou Reed and that summer in Siam, you took a walk on the wild side
Oliver Stone in Vietnam

I’m tired of fighting in this cold war
Don’t want to die for a country I don’t know no more

Based on the poem "Cold War" by Quinten Collier.

John Panther Mellotron, “Gold Grammys (Ain’t That Americana)”

“Gold Grammys (Ain’t That Americana)”
By John Panther Mellotron

There’s a white boy, wearin Ray Bans
Living in a hip neighborhood
He sings about hopping trains, picks a pricey banjo
He thinks man, I got it so good

There’s a young girl, in the kitchen
Smoking up a big fat bowl
And he looks at her and says I remember when Robert Plant was rock and roll

But ain’t that Americana, you and me
Ain’t that Americana , something to see
Ain’t that Americana, J.T.E.

A little gold Grammy for you and me.

There’s a young man, in suspenders
Listenin to a AAA station
He’s got pomaded hair and a pomaded smile
He thinks the Ryman must be his destination

Someone told him
When he was younger
Said, boy, Cash should be president
But just like everything those dreams just kinda came and went

But ain’t that Americana, a wagon wheel
Ain’t that Americana , a genre to steal
Ain’t that Americana, no layers to peel
Three or four chords, for you to feel!

And there’s string bands and more strings bands
And what do you know?
They go to work at their coffee shops
And then sing about the fields they gotta hoe

And there’s losers and there’s losers
But darlin don’t you know
That Buddy Miller wins all the awards at all the damn shows

But ain’t that Americana….

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