Story

Stephen Foster

© Copyright 1976 Peter Lloyd

Take me to Louisville, driver, I got the fare
I love a woman livin’ somewhere ‘round there  
I was gonna marry her, but I got up tight 
Watching her dance on a Saturday night
Watching her dance on a Saturday night  

Stole into Louisville A-W-O-L
With two pints of Echo, the whiskey from hell 
Stashed ‘em a Greyhound rental box down there 
When a woman came up with long, curly hair
A woman came up with long, curly hair  

She took a package from the box next to mine
I knew that our futures would soon intertwine 
She told me my birthday and the day I would die 
I saw a spark in the dark of her eye
I saw a spark in the dark of her eye  

Bought her a Pepsi in the station restaurant 
She said, “I’m able to provide what you want 
I’ve got some money, we could travel in style 
You wait right here. I’ll be back in a while
You wait right here. I’ll be back in a while  

I waited one hour and I waited for two
Got sorta nervous wonderin’ what she would do 
Walked ‘round the lobby one more time, then I thought 
If I don’t go, I’ll bound to get caught
If I don’t go, I’ll bound to get caught  

Took out a bottle and decided to go
‘Cross to the burlesque, continuous show 
Found me a seat and settled down for the night 
Guess who I saw steppin’ out in the light
Guess who I saw steppin’ out in the light  

Opened my Echo as she started to dance 
Finished it right when she took off her pants  
Dirty old men in there kept shoutin’ for more 
I stood up to fight, ended up on the floor
I stood up to fight, ended up on the floor  

Police in Louisville took me back to Fort Knox 
Who knows what Greyhound ever did with my box 
Don’t know her number and I don’t know her name 
Might never know, but drive just the same
Might never know, but drive just the same  

And take me to Louisville, driver, I got the fare 
Find me that woman with long, curly hair 
This time I’ll marry her and I won’t lose my mind 
Cuz this time I will leave my Echo behind
This time I will leave my Echo behind
This time I will leave my Echo behind

Leave My Echo Behind

©Copyright 1973, 2015 Peter Lloyd

You can take my shoes, you can drink my soup
I no longer lock my door at night
Here the moon comes up when the sun goes down
And the mountains roll ‘round the thunder clouds
While the river, she winds her way behind

It’s like beautiful, beautiful music
Mellowed in the Appalachian way
Folks come and go, but these mountains kow
That you take a bluegrass tune down to your grave

When Tom Gentry died, I cried and cried
Then one night I heard his voice below the ground
I said, “Oh, Tom, you make such a sweet, bright sound.
Can you tell me, my old partner, what have you found?”
And he sang these words I’m singing to you

It’s like beautiful, beautiful music
Mellowed in the Appalachian way
Folks come and go, but these mountains know
That you take a bluegrass tune down to your grave

When my stories are all told and my bones are cold
And all that’s left is an empty rocking chair
Won’t you wrap me up and carry me down
Cover me over with that sweet, black ground        
And pick a bluegrass tune above my head

It’s like beautiful, beautiful music
Mellowed in the Appalachian way
Folks come and go, but these mountains know
That you take a bluegrass tune down to your grave

Folks come and they go
But these mountains stay right here and they know
That you can take a bluegrass tune down to your grave
Yes, you take them bluegrass tunes down to your grave

Bluegrass Music

© Copyright 2020 Peter Lloyd
Melody adapted from "Beautiful Dreamer" by Stephen Foster

No, bladder cancer’s not such a bad fate
Not ‘less you miss it or treat it too late
Urologists spot it, no matter how small
Then go in and scape it right off of the wall

To get to your tumor, they don’t have to cut 
They don’t turn you over and go up your butt
The way to your bladder’s not in through your nose
They go up your schlong with long, rubber hose

Poor little penis takes all the pains
Gives only pleasure and never complains
Poor little penis just longs to be
A stout-hearted poker and not a poke-ee
A stout-hearted poker and not a poke-ee

First they prepare you and put you to sleep
Into a twilight you go, not too deep
Meanwhile your penis takes all of the flak
While you in your twilight, lie flat on your back

Poor little penis takes all the pains
Gives only pleasure and never complains
Poor little penis just longs to be
A stout-hearted poker and not a poke-ee
A stout-hearted poker and not a poke-ee

No, bladder cancer’s not such a bad fate
Not ‘less you miss it or treat it too late
So go see your doctor, and one who’s well known
For treating each penis as if it’s his own

Poor little penis takes all the pains
Gives only pleasure and never complains
Poor little penis just longs to be
A stout-hearted poker and not a poke-ee
A stout-hearted poker and not a poke-ee

Poor Little Penis

Homage to Stephen Foster and to my childhood home of North College Hill, Ohio,  a suburb of Cincinnati, whose name does not lend itself  very well to melodic meter.

Words and music © Copyright 1969, 2003, 2011, 2016 Peter Lloyd

Oh, how the days passed, so long, filled with fun
We would play along the streets and alleys, laughing as we’d run
Warm was the pavement ‘neath the sweet summer sun
In my younger days in Cincinnati, may they be retold
Could I keep the laughter in my heart from those younger days in Cincinnati
Sure I’d never grow old

Oft times I ponder, oh, how my heart does yearn
What imparts a child sustaining joy a man should want to learn
Some day in summer, I’m sure I must return
When I see those children’s smiling faces, will they know I long
For the blessing of the joy to spend just one younger day in Cincinnati
Full with carefree song

How I return, I’m sure I’ll never know
Do I slip the gnarly grip of time or dream my way back home?
Somehow my child’s eyes upraise their sleepy shades
And the granite load of life’s long labor gently falls away
As the peal of laughter draws me home to one younger day in Cincinnati 
Mark what I behold

Who knows this stranger who on our games now spies?
No hint of harm comes in his heart, yet tears well in his eyes
There in his winter, I feel my own foretold
So I swear the roaring heat of summer never will grow cold
For I’ll keep the laughter in my heart from this younger day in Cincinnati
Sure, I’ll never grow old
Oh, how the days passed, so long

Younger Days in Cincinnati

To the tune of "Old Folks at Home"
 
Wayne Bailey stopped on by this mornin’
As was his way
Called to my window without warnin’
“Here comes the same old day”
 
On down the road we went a-walkin’
As was our way
Wayne doin’ almost all the talkin’
Here’s what old Wayne had to say:
 
"Around the world the time-old story
"Ev'ry day the same
"Some risk their lives for love and glory
"Some treat it like a game
 
"One walks the dog and dries the dishes
"One folds the clothes
"One cuts the bait, the other fishes
"One weeds, the other hoes
 
"Some trade in slaves and steal their labors
"Some sell their wares
"Some grab a gun and slay their neighbors
"Some offer thoughts and prayers
 
"Around the world the time-old story
"Ev'ry day the same
"Some risk their lives for love and glory
"Some treat it like a game"
 
On back around we came from walkin’
As was our way
Wayne doin’ almost all the talkin’
Like ev’ry other day
 
"Around the world the time-old story
"Ev'ry day the same
"Some risk their lives for love and glory
"Some treat it like a game"
 
© Copyright 2022 Peter Lloyd

What Old Wayne Said

No sun shines bright on Breonna Taylor’s home
There sorrow and darkness remain
In empty rooms where the fatal shots have flown
The echoes of death will always reign

Our heads must bow for how far we fall behind
True justice without and within
When bullets fly, it’s the darker skin they find
No matter how slight or small the sin

Weep no more, good people
Oh, spare your thoughts and pra yers
Rather sing one song for Breonna Taylor’s home
And the shameful stain that lingers there
How many times will we pause at end of day
And wonder how long we must roam
Until we lay down that fair and level way
We take to our bright and better home
Weep no more, good people
Oh, spare your thoughts and prayers
Rather sing one song for Breonna Taylor’s home
And the shameful stain that lingers there 

Let us sing one song for Breonna Taylor’s home
And the shameful stain that lingers there

(c) Copyright 2025 Peter Lloyd
music by suno AI

Breonna Taylor’s Home

Tuscaloosa, Alabama  
Billy Birdsong called it home 
But an omen soon would warn him 
"Cross the Urals you must roam" 
Saw Natasha Borashchenka  
In the movie "Goldeneye" 
Heard her sing to her intended 
"Cross the Urals you must fly" 

Billy Birdsong's heart surrendered  
In Natasha's spell he lay 
On an app called Duolingo 
Practiced Russian every day 
Saved his money, sold possessions  
Vowed he'd pay most any price 
Found a student language conference 
In the land of snow and ice

Six thousand miles 
Bet tomorrow on a song
How could a boy from Tuscaloosa 
Alabama, not go wrong?

In the town of Nazarovo 
On Siberia's dead floor
Students gathered, far behind them 
Nearly every foreign shore 
Billy Birdsong speaking Russian  
In a crowded co-ed dorm 
Met a hundred Borashchenkas 
Had to keep each other warm 

Three hundred teens 
Drinking vodka all night long
How could a boy from Tuscaloosa 
Alabama, not go wrong? 

Tuscaloosa, Alabama  
Billy Birdsong won't be back 
Now he's raising little Birdsongs 
In a Nazarovo shack 

Dark, Russian tea 
Piping from a samovar
How could a boy from Tuscaloosa 
Alabama, come so far? 

All the way across the Urals 
Living like a Russian Tsar?

© Copyright 2017 Peter Lloyd
Music by Suno.com AI

Billy Birdsong (Across the Urals)

© Copyright 2018 Peter Lloyd

Dick and Jane were my best friends
When I learned how to read
Played in perfect harmony
Thrived in thought and deed 
But as they grew it happened
No longer did they click
Jane became a better Jane
Dick remained a dick

Jane stands strong and lovely now
Wise beyond her years
Whenever someone needs a hand
It’s Jane who volunteers
Never judges anyone 
Forgives and then forgets
Nothing she holds dearer than
Life without regrets

Dick still loves loud farting sounds
And savors dirty jokes
Drives a two-ton S-U-V
Calls climate change a hoax
Judges women solely by 
The contour of their buns
Nothing he hold dearer than 
His Bible and his guns

See Dick run. Run, Dick, run.
See Jane run. Oh, what fun!

Jane commands respect at work
She lets her people steer
Dick rules with an iron fist
Drives his team with fear
If you had to work with one
I know who you’d pick
Jane became a better Jane
Dick remained a dick

See Dick run. Run, Dick, run.
See Jane run. Oh, what fun!

The moral of this story
Not too hard to find 
The more you try to run ahead
The more you fall behind
If you have a penis
No need to be a prick
Act a little more like Jane
Don’t be such a dick

Act a little more like Jane
Don’t be such a dick

Dick and Jane

Songwriter since 1966. Can't believe I still have to write protest songs. Prefer writing love songs and songs of praise for stand-up women and men, parodies, lyrical nonsense, blues and adaptations.