L.A. INFIRMARY BLUES
-------------
On the day that I went crazy
My baby called 911
Hello LAFD – Where you boys taking me?
– You’re going down to the LA Infirmary, old son
-------------
She went down to the LA Infirmary
And what did she see?
Strapped into a bright yellow gurney
An old man who looked a lot like me

I said I’m so glad you come by baby
But I really don’t need a thing
I’ve got angels flying round the ceiling
And I love to listen to them sing —

Let him go, let him go, god bless him
If you love him, set him free
You can search the wide world over
You’ll never find another such as he

So she went up to see the doctor
Yeah, he’s all fucked up, he said
He’s clogged up a drain, it’s backed up to his brain
It’s making angels fly around his head

But I’ve got this brand new gizmo
I can sneak it right up his spout
Gonna roto-rooter his old pea shooter
And flush all them angels right out 

Let me go, let me go, God bless me
If you love me, set me free
You can search the wide world over
You’ll never find another man like me
-------------
Now, when I came to in the ICU
The doc was at my bedside
Are you still seeing angels, the doctor said
Not any more, I lied

Yes, I lied to the doctor
And to my baby I lied
And I’m lying to you – or am I telling you true?
Well, that’s for you to decide

Let me go, let me go, goddammit
If you don’t love me, just let me be
You can search the wide world over
There’s a million more men like me
-------------
Now, when the undertaker takes me under	
Here’s how I want to spread the news	
I want lightning, I want thunder	
I want my angels to sing me
The LA Infirmary Blues

L.A. Infirmary Blues

KATRINA KATRINA
© Larry Zempel

1.

Katrina, Katrina
Katrina, pourquoi
Katrina, Katrina
Pourquoi tu m’as fais comme ça?

I’m on the roof
water’s risin’
levees fallin’ all around

The ugly truth
on the horizon
there ain’t no way to save my town

They say Atlantis sank beneath the sea
looks like it’s time for New Orleans – and me

So swing low
sweet helicopter
come carry me up before I drown

Save our souls
Save our skins
Mother Mary please forgive our sins
Water’s up – to Tremé, to Gentilly,
the Lower 9th Ward, Lord, and now it’s up to me – and you

When them saints
come marchin’ in now
they better wear their water wings

2.

Katrina, Katrina
Katrina, pourquoi
Katrina, Katrina
Pourquoi tu m’as fais comme ça?

All over the world
water’s risin’
mighty icecaps melting down

Inconvenient truth
on the horizon
it’s time to climb to higher ground

Old Noah built a big ark way back when
Hey, Noah, here we go again

When Jesus comes
he can walk on water –
Sweet Jesus won’t you teach us how

Save our souls
Save our skins
Mother Nature please forgive our sins
Water’s up – to Amsterdam, to Miami, 
to Cancun, Rangoon, and soon it’s up to you – and me

If I had wings
like Noah’s raven
I’d fly us to a haven in the clouds

-------------

If I had wings
like Noah’s dove, dear
I’d fly us to some Eden high above

Katrina Katrina

THE FIBONACCI SONG
© Larry Zempel

I’ll sing you one-O
Sing Fibonacci-O
One is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.

I’ll sing you two-O
Sing Fibonacci-O
Two, two is one plus one – one is one plus zero
One is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.

(Ready, class? --)
The Fibonacci Sequence ain’t complex
Just add the last two numbers to get the next –
One, two, three, five, eight, thirteen,
Twenty-one, thirty-four – but what does it mean?

I’ll sing you three-O
Sing Fibonacci-O
Three, three is two plus one you see
Two, two is one plus one – one is one plus zero
One is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.

These Fibonacci numbers tell how your garden grows
From the mighty mighty oak down to the red red rose
Three petals on Vincent’s irises, five on the columbine,
Five the arms on the starfish; five your fingers – and mine

I’ll sing you five-O
Sing Fibonacci-O
Five, five is three plus two
Three, three is two plus one you see
Two, two is one plus one – one is one plus zero 
One is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.

Eight petals on the holy lotus, that’s the noble eightfold path
The daisy has thirteen, twenty-one, thirty-four – do the math
She loves me, she loves me not – so it goes –
She loves me, she loves me not? – Fibonacci knows.

I’ll sing you eight-O
Sing Fibonacci-O
Eight, eight is five plus three
Five, five is three plus two
Three, three is two plus one you see
Two, two is one plus one – one is one plus zero
One is one and all alone and ever more shall be so.

-------------
(Now, class --)
Divide any upper number by the one below –
You’re gonna get the golden ratio – 
That’s the number drives the spiral of the nautilus shell
The pattern of the pine cone, the pineapple as well

The swirl inside the sunflower head, the whirlpool down the drain
The vortex of the galaxy, the helix of the hurricane –
Here I sing and there you hear – 
Through the golden spiral of your inner ear.

-------------

Now, there’s God the Father, God the Son
God the Mathematician
I believe in none of those
I believe in this red, red rose

She knows the math, but she’s still free
another rose like her will never be
Her singularity doth show
what you, my love, and I both know
. . . .

(Class – a major chord is –”)
one-three-five-eight – 
who do we arpeggiate?

Fibonacci.

The Fibonacci Song

2 Beautiful 4U
© Larry Zempel

She got face, she got eye
She got cheek, she got lip
She got leg, she got thigh
All the way up to her hip
Down below, she got bottom
Up on top, a mop of hair
Out in front? — She got ‘em
And she got skin everywhere
She got it all, it’s true
And it’s all too beautiful
Too beautiful for you

You’re too young, she won’t wait
Or you’re too old, born too early
Or maybe she was just born too late
But I’m on time — can’t you see
She’s just beautiful enough for me
I don’t mean no disrespect, though I suspect
you know it’s true –
You know she’s much too beautiful
Too beautiful for you
-------------
She got brain, she got heart
She got spleen, she got spunk
She got craft, she got art
She got philosophy, she got funk
She got sun in the morning
She got moon in her jeans
She got global warming
And you know what that means
She got it all, it’s true
And it’s all too beautiful
Too beautiful for you

You’re too weak, or too strong
You’re too bright, too dim, too stout, too slim
Whatever you are, you’re all wrong
But I’m all right — can’t you see
She’s just beautiful enough for me
I really hate to break your heart, and
I don’t aim to make you blue
But you know she’s much too beautiful
Too beautiful for you
I don’t mean no disrespect, though I suspect
you know it’s true
You know she’s much too beautiful
Too beautiful for you

2 Beautiful 4U

THE SONG OF THE LONG ISLAND COWBOY
© Larry Zempel

Tonight at twilight I walked by your houses,
down your tree-lined, green-lawned, peaceful streets — 
and the dinners cooking in your pretty kitchens
made the bitter city air smell almost sweet.

You know, it took me back — back to Long Island
and the life I might have known
if I hadn’t run off to Wyoming
to ride the rodeo — come-a-ti-yi-yo — you know — 

I ain’t got a lot to show — 
only some trophy buckles and some busted bones — 
so you might see me feeling low,
but you ain’t gonna hear me sing a song
called Going Home.


Today I made a big dent in the Fairgrounds,
so tonight I’ll hock a buckle for some booze.
Why do the women only want you when you’re winning,
while the time you need ’em most is when you lose?

I guess I’ll spend the night with Lady Dapple,
drinking rye and making plans — 
I’ll talk till dawn about Long Island,
then we’ll go down the road to Cheyenne — oh man, if I can — my land — 

I ain’t got a lot to show — 
only a pickup and a pony and a poem — 
so you might see me feeling low,
but you ain’t gonna hear me sing a song
called Going Home.


I call the folks up almost every Christmas,
and my dad still asks how much I made last year.
And I say, Dad, I think we’ve got a bad connection — 
It’s such a far, far cry from Long Island to here.

Dad, it’s that high old ride for glory,
from the chute out to the bell.
Those eight seconds tell the story
and the rest can go to hell — ah, well — what the hell — I tell you — 

I ain’t got a lot to show — 
only some trophy buckles and some busted bones — 
so you might see me feeling low,
but you ain’t gonna hear me sing a song
called Going Home.

The Song of the Long Island Cowboy

JOHN KINSELLA'S LAMENT FOR MRS MARY MOORE
Words: William Butler Yeats / Music: Larry Zempel

A bloody and a sudden end,
A gunshot or a noose.
For death, who takes what man would keep,
Leaves what man would lose.
He might have had my sister,
My cousins by the score,
But nothing satisfied the fool
But my dear Mary Moore.
None other knows what pleasures man,
At table or in bed.

What shall I do for pretty girls,
Now my old bawd is dead?

Though stiff to strike a bargain,
Like an old Scots man,
Her bargain struck, we laughed and talked,
And emptied many a can.
And oh, but she had stories,
Though not for the priest’s ear,
To keep the soul of man alive,
Banish age and care.
And being old, she put a skin
On everything she said.

What shall I do for pretty girls,
Now my old bawd is dead?

The priests have got a book that says,
But for Adam’s sin,
Eden’s garden would be here,
And I there within.
No expectation fails there,
No pleasing habit ends;
No man grows old, no girl grows cold,
But friends walk by friends.
Who quarrels over ha’pennies
That plucks the trees for bread?

What shall I do for pretty girls,
Now my old bawd is dead?

John Kinsella's Lament for Mrs Mary Moore

DIE HAPPY
© Lawrence Zempel

I was a tongue-tied schoolboy
She was Homecoming Queen
All the way through high school
I danced with her in my dreams
It took me years to take a chance
And ask her to a real dance
She said, I’ve been waiting for you
Since we were fourteen
She said, Welcome home, darling
Wanna be my king?
That’s when I heard an angel sing —

Do you want to die happy?
Do you want to die happy?
If you want to die happy I can tell you how
If you want to die happy —
Do you want to die happy?
If you want to die happy, die now.

-------------

I was a would-be cowboy
Riding for the B-bar-B
First time working night herd
I got caught in a stampede
All I could do was hang on and pray
But my pony knew the way
We ran ‘em down and turned ‘em round
And sang ‘em back to sleep
Well, come sunrise
You shoulda seen that cowboss grin
That’s when I heard that angel sing again —

Do you want to die happy?
Do you want to die happy?
If you want to die happy I can tell you how
If you want to die happy —
Do you want to die happy?
If you want to die happy, die now.

-------------

Ah, well — life goes on
I did not become a cowboy
My Homecoming Queen is long, long gone
But I can tell you — next time, I’ll be listening
If there is a next time—that I hear that angel sing		
Do you want to die happy?
Do you want to die happy?
If you want to die happy I can tell you how
If you want to die happy —
Do you want to die happy? 
If you want to die happy
Better make it snappy
Before it turns crappy 
Or just gets sappy 
If you want to die happy
Listen here, Pappy
If you want to die happy, die now.
-- Die happy, die now.
-- Now.

Die Happy

BEETHOVEN STREET
© Lawrence Zempel

Beethoven Street
Where the hopeful and the has-been meet
Get in line
Underneath that welcome sign
Abandon all fear
All ye wannabees who enter here
You’re the elite – here on
Beethoven Street

Where the dull can shine
The cracked can ring
The mute can rhyme
And the deaf can sing

No critics allowed
You can do your dreaming right out loud
Life is sweet – here on
Beethoven Street

(instrumental break)

Where the blind have eyes
The lame take wing
Fools are wise
And the deaf can sing

Just come as you are
You might find your own sidewalk star
Beneath your feet – here on
Beethoven Street

Now here’s a secret – just between us
You don’t have to be a genius
Inside every girl and boy
You’ve got your own Ode to Joy

(instrumental break)

No critics allowed
You can do your dreaming right out loud
Life is sweet – here on
Beethoven Street

(instrumental break)

Just come as you are
You might find your own sidewalk star
Beneath your feet – here on
Beethoven Street

Beethoven Street

DAUGHTER OF THE PHA-RA-OH
© Lawrence Zempel

1965 –
A march in Selma, Alabam
An uprising in Watts
A war in Vietnam
I got an invitation
but I said I couldn’t go
I’d been drafted by the Daughter of the Pha-ra-oh

1966 –
The war lurches along
LBJ is raining bombs
on Hanoi & Haiphong
James Meredith gets shotgunned
on a Mississippi road
While I dally with the Daughter of the Pha-ra-oh

Come to me, ya habibi
Forget it all awhile
My body is a golden barge
To ply the ancient Nile
War is neverending
I’m just here until I go –
So said the Daughter of the Pha-ra-oh

1967 –
Riots everywhere
Kids flock to San Francisco
with flowers in their hair
It’s the summer of love and hate
I didn’t show
I was too deep into the Daughter of the Pha-ra-oh

1968 –
The damndest year yet
In the avenues of Hué,
the VC’s celebrating Tet
There’s a massacre in My Lai
Could it get any worse?
Yes it could – ‘68 is
gonna take another verse

They kill MLK in April
RFK in June
LBJ is pulling out –
Nixon’s coming soon
Kids and cops are rioting
in the streets of Chicago
While I dawdle with the Daughter of the Pha-ra-oh

Come to me, ya habibi
Forget it all awhile
My body is a golden bird
To fly o’er the ancient Nile
Injustice is forever
I’m just here until I go –
So said the Daughter of the Pha-ra-oh

Now it’s
2000 something –
The sixties are long gone
Vietnam is over
but the wars keep coming on
A few do very nicely now
while many do without
Do black lives matter yet?
The jury is still out

There’s an old man rocking
in a bentwood rocking chair
Wonder what is going on
behind that vacant stare?
Is he stoned or meditating
is it old-timer’s disease
or is he ruminating
on justice, war and peace
or none of the above – for all you know
He could be dreaming of the Daughter
of the Pha-ra-oh

Daughter of the Pha - ra - oh

THAT'S NO LADY
© Lawrence Zempel

When she came across my border
she had nothing to declare,
but all her papers were in order
and I had time and room to spare.
When I saw how light she traveled
I said, Lady, tell me why?
She said, How you gonna say hello
Unless you learn to say goodbye?

That’s no lady – that’s just a woman.
She’s got stories in her face –
Each life she’s led has left its trace –
Nothing to hold you but an embrace –
only a woman.
She’s got nothing to want – nothing to waste.

So I passed her through my customs,
and I laid her body bare.
Like the pages in her passport,
I saw her travels recorded there.
And I said, Lady, you’ve had children.
Ah, put out the light, she said,
That was in another country;
now my nation is your bed.

That’s no lady – that’s just a woman.
She’s got roadmaps in her hands –
Now, I’ve laid down with tigers and with lambs,
so why I’d want her I don’t understand –
she’s only a woman.
She’s got nothing to follow – nor to command.

(instrumental break)

Next day I found her on the runway,
and I begged her not to fly.
I said, I’ve got to know – who was that lady
that I was with last night?
She said, Why weigh me down with questions?
You know all there is to know.
How you ever gonna say goodbye
Unless you learn to say hello?

That’s no lady – that’s just a woman.
She’s got stories in her face –
She wears her liberty like lace –
Nothing can hold her but an embrace –
She’s only a woman.
She’s got nothing – nothing but grace
Just a woman -
She’s got – nothing but grace

That's No Lady

SUNDAY MORNING
© Lawrence Zempel

Sunday morning, when we rise
Oranges and coffee on the lawn
In the Sunday paper, under Easter skies
We read the news from old Jerusalem
Beyond the garden, a choir of church bells rings –
Alleluia –
Alleluia –
Allelu –

Sunday morning, Jerusalem
The faithful gather round an empty tomb
They gather at a rock where a prophet did ascend
They gather at a wall of ancient stone
From the garden, a choir of mockingbirds sings –
Alleluia –
Alleluia –
Allelu –

(instrumental break)

Sunday evening, when we retire
Chocolates and tea beside the hearth
The Sunday paper kindles the fire
We talk of faith and blood and peace on earth
From the garden, a choir of nightingales sings –
Amen, amen –
Amen –
Allelu –

Sunday Morning

Singer-songwriter. Born in Colorado, raised in rural Illinois and urban Missouri, college in California, now living on Mt Washington in LA. Background in architectural, industrial, and graphic design. 
"I ain't never been no cowboy, but heaven knows I've tried." (THX, L.L.)

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