Ecclesiastes 9:16 (KJV)

Then said I,

Wisdom is better than strength:

nevertheless the poor man's wisdom is despised,

and his words are not heard.

-- Ecclesiastes 9:16 (KJV)

I CAN”T AFFORD TO PLAY THE REDNECK, ANYMORE

(to the tune of “Blue Eyes Cryin’ In The Rain”)




1.
Me an’ my darlin’ got t’ talkin’
‘Bout all them demons cause us pain --
An’ wouldn’t it be nice if they’d just drop dead
An’ never darken our TV screens again?
But my darlin’ has taught me life’s political.
We’re born on a battlefield, at war.
An’ wishin’ an’ prayin’ just won’t cut it.
I can’t afford to play the redneck, anymore.

2.
I used t’ think life could be simple —
That cowboy boots would do the trick.
But when them demons ate my parents,
I seen I had some butt to kick.
Yes, them rich kids they ate my folks for breakfast.
Now it’s time to settle up the score.
It’s time to admit that life’s political.
I can’t afford to play the redneck, anymore.

3.
Them demons eat rednecks for breakfast,
An’ save our children for dessert.
Kiddyporn’s a picnic next to this nightmare
They film as they build this world of hurt.
My darlin’ has taught me to foil them demons,
To boycott their church an’ their company store.
‘Cause wishin’ an’ prayin’ just won’t cut it.
I can’t afford to play the redneck, anymore.

Envoi
Yes, my darlin’ has taught me life’s political.
We’re born on a battlefield, at war.
An’ wishin’ an’ prayin’ just won’t cut it
I can’t afford to play the redneck, anymore.

Words by Galen Green c 1989

AMERICAN SLAVES



Happiness hides beyond these gates --
Silver spoons and China plates.
But here we breed and slave and rot
And thank our oppressors for the little we’ve got.
Of those who dare to take a chance
By running away to wealth and romance
In far off parts of these United States,
A few of them make it; the rest do not.
The majority blind ourselves to our fates,
Play deaf, dumb and numb to what circumstance
Enslaves us to our pitiful plot.

We all are slaves to our family ties
And to whatever totems our parents baptize
Us to at birth. (This chain is mine!!!)
These are the slave shacks to which we resign
Our days with our cousins and uncles and aunts.
These are the factories that sprout up like plants,
Like tobacco, like cotton. None dares criticize
The poisons they make here and on which we shall dine.
Our sadistic oppressors we all idolize,
Because we need their bucks to finance
This earthly hell, this grim design.

These are our children and these are their fires
Which we sell for their heat to the sinister choirs
Of extinguishing gangster whose ways and means
Are more perverse than the kings and queens
Who once held their serfs in a feudal trance,
From Charlemagne onward — in England, in France,
In Russia, etc.-- while the clergy, with pliers,
Ripped out their genitals, backbones and spleens,-
Then played them like puppets from invisible wires.
These are our children. See them dance.
See them play out their pitiful scenes.

(Cont’d)








These are our hands. We sell them in pairs.
Hands that sweat while the bossperson swears
And threatens. Hands that would become wings.
Hands we fold in praise to kings
And shareholders whose childish extravagance
Feeds on our foolish intolerance
Toward new ideas which could banish our cares,
Hands we shackle with wedding rings,
Hands that get slapped if any dares
To point a finger at the arrogance
Of our proud oppressor, who mockingly sings.

We’re American slaves, ravaged and torn
From four hundred years of shucking corn
And parking cars. The needle glides
Toward the breaking point. The future rides
On our backs like Rajas on their elephants.
But this is of little relevance.
For it’s liberation and change we scorn.
Beyond these gates, happiness hides.
But don’t disturb our stupor to warn us
That we are but sleepwalkers, ghosts at a seance,
Oblivious to which way the avalanche slides.


Words and Music by Galen Green c 1989