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Recorded by hank williams, sr.
Words and music by hank williams, sr.

I went to the country - just the other day
To see my uncle bill and sorta pass the time away
I asked him how he'd been - since last, I'd passed his way
He rubbed his chin - here's what he had to say.

My wife's been sick - the young'ns, too
And I'm durn near - down with the flu
The cow's gone dry - and them hens won't lay
But - we're still a-livin' - so ever' thing's okay.

The hogs took the cholera and they've all done died
The bees got mad - and they left the hive
The weevils got the corn and the rain rotted the hay
But - we're still a-livin' - so ever'thing's okay.

The porch rotted down - that's more expense
The durned old mule - he tore down the fence
The mortgage is due and - I can't pay
But - we're still a-livin' - so ever'thing's okay.

The cow broke in the field and eat up the beans
The durn rabbits - they got the turnip greens
And my ma-in-law just moved in to stay
But - we're still a-livin' - so ever'thing's okay.

My land's so poor - so hard and yeller
You have to set on a sack of fetilizer to raise an umbreller
And it rains out here - nearly ever' day
But - we're still a-livin' - so ever'thing's okay.

The well's gone dry and I have to tote the water
Up from the spring - about a mile and a quarter
My helper, he quit - for the lack of pay
But - we're still a-livin' - so ever'thing's okay.

The house it leaks - it needs a new top
When it rains - it wets ever'thing we got
The chimney fell down - just yesterday
But - we're still a-livin' - so ever'thing's okay.

The corn meals gone and the meat's run out
Got nothin' to kill to put in the smokehouse
The preacher's comin' sunday - to spend the day
But - we're still a-livin' - so ever'thing's okay.

The canned stuff's spoiled - else the jar's got broke
And all we got left is one old billy goat
We're gonna have a new baby about the first of may
But - we're still a-livin' - so ever'thing's okay.

My crop it rotted - in the ground
I asked for another loan but the banker turned me down
But - we're still a-livin' and we're prayin' for better days
So - after all, ever'thing's in purty good shape.

I'm sittin alone, Saturday night, watching the Late Late Show.
A bottle of wine, some cigarettes, I got no place to go.
Well, I saw your other man today; he was wearing my brand new shoes,
And I'm down to seeds and stems again, too.

Well, I met my old friend Bob today from up in Bowling Green;
He had the prettiest little gal that I'd ever seen.
But I couldn't hide my tears at all, cause she looked just like you,
And I'm down to seeds and stems again, too.

Now everybody tells me there's other ways to get high.
They don't seem to understand I'm too far gone to try.
Now these lonely memories, they're all I can't lose,
And I'm down to seeds and stems again, too.

Well my dog died just yesterday and left me all alone.
The finance company dropped by today and repossessed my home.
That's just a drop in the bucket compared to losing you,
And I'm down to seeds and stems again, too.
Got the Down to Seeds and Stems again Blues.

Life gets teejus' don't it
The sun comes up and the sun goes down,
The hands on the clock go round and roumd. I just get up and it's time to lay down...
Life gets teejus, don't it?

My shoe's untied, but I don't care,
I don't figure on goin' nowhere;
I'd have to wash and comb my hair...
That's just wasted effort.

Water in the well get lower and lower,
Can't take a bath in a month or more;
But I've heard it said--and it's true, I'm sure--
That too much bathing will weaken you.

Danged ol' mule, he must be sick.
I jabbed him in the rump with a pin on a stick:
He hunched his back, but he wouldn't kick;
Something cock-eyed somewhere.

Hound dog's howling so forlorn,
Laziest dawg that ever was born:
He's howlin' 'cause he's settin' on a thorn;
Just too tired to move over.

The cow's gone dry and the hens won't lay,
And the fish quit bitin' last Saturday;
Troubles pile up day by day...
And now I'm gettin' dandruff.

Roof's a-leakin' and the chimney leans,
There's a hole in the seat of my old blue jeans;
Now I've et the last of the pork an' beans...
Just can't depend on nothin'.

Thare's a mouse chawin' at the pantry door,
He's been at it now for a month or more.
When he gets through he'll sure be sore--
There ain't a darn thing in there.

Debts and taxes, griefs and woes,
Aches and miseries, so it goes;
And now I'm getting a cold in my nose...
Life gets tasteless, don't it?

My word, listeners. There's dys and edgar singing the blues in Hank's old style and wearin no shoes.

Hogs need sloppin'
Mortgage is due,
Old lady's pissed off,
Sweeps in the flue.

Bush and his secret tapes,
California floods,
Fellow rides an avalanche
And a lot of other crud.

But we're livin'.

Just a Ma and Pa Kettle type of day --

Dust Storm Disaster

On the fourteenth day of April of nineteen thirty five,
There struck the worst of duststorms that ever filled the sky:
You could see that dust storm coming the cloud looked deathlike black,
And through our mighty nation, it left a dreadful track.

From Oklahoma city to the Arizona line,
Dakota and Nebraska to the lazy Rio Grande,
It fell across our city like a curtain of black rolled down,
We thought it was our judgement, we thought it was our doom.

The radio reported, we listened with alarm,
The wild and windy actions of this great mysterious storm;
From Albuquerque and Clovis, and all New Mexico,
They said it was the blackest that ever they had saw.

From old Dodge City, Kansas, the dust had rung their knell,
And a few more comrades sleeping on top of old Boot Hill.
From Denver, Colorado, they said it blew so strong,
They thought that they could hold out, but didn't know how long.

Our relatives were huddled into their oil boom shacks,
And the children they was crying as it whistled through the cracks.
And the family it was crowded into their little room,
They thought the world had ended, they thought it was their doom.

This storm took place at sundown and lasted through the night,
When we looked out this morning we saw a terrible sight:
We saw outside our windows where wheat fields they had grown
Was now a rippling ocean of dust the wind had blown.

It covered up our fences, it covered up our barns,
It covered up our tractors in this wild and windy storm.
We loaded our jalopies and piled our families in,
We rattled down the highway to never come back again.

well, what do you think of this guy, listeners:
Intensely competitive by nature, Hewitt seemed to resent success in others. Years later he wrote that Poe's reputation was undeserved. He accused Poe of plagiarizing The Raven from an old English poem. And still smarting over being bested in the short story contest, he accused Poe of adapting "Manuscript Found in a Bottle" from Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner.

Hewitt was equally uncharitable toward other successful performers. Of matinee idol Henry Russell, who in the 1840s toured America and held audiences spellbound with his songs, Hewitt said his act was little more than a "bombast," and dismissed Russell as nothing more than "an expert at wheedling applause from an audience." He was particularly vicious toward Harry Macarthy -- whose song "The Bonnie Blue Flag" rivaled "Dixie" as the Confederacy's unofficial national anthem -- calling him a plagiarist and a coward.

Hello! who is this Hewitt who got down to it.

Cavfancier/Paul died. No other way to say it.

Come to the wake, and sing for us, Letty.
We need to be together.

Oh, God, Beth, if only I could. Sing for me, will you?

I'll hold Bo's hand and sing for you IRL, Letty.

sing for all of us, beth?

please, do.................................................................gone

A song borrowed for the occasion


He was a friend of mine
He was a friend of mine
Every time I think about him now
Lord I just can't keep from cryin'
'Cause he was a friend of mine

I stole away and cried
I stole away and cried
'Cause I never had too much money
And I never been quite satisfied
And he was a friend of mine

He never done no wrong
He never done no wrong
A thousand miles from home
And he never harmed no one
And he was a friend of mine

He was a friend of mine
He was a friend of mine
Every time I hear his name
Lord I just can't keep from cryin'
'Cause he was a friend of mine.

..................................................................................................

Send in the Clowns
For the Cav family:

Send in The Clowns
By Steven sondheim

Isn't it rich, aren't we a pair
Me here at last on the ground - and you in mid-air
Send in the clowns

Isn't it bliss, don't you approve
One who keeps tearing around - and one who can't move
But where are the clowns - send in the clowns

Just when I stopped opening doors
Finally finding the one that I wanted - was yours
Making my entrance again with my usual flair
Sure of my lines - nobody there

Don't you love a farce; my fault I fear
I thought that you'd want what I want - sorry my dear
But where are the clowns - send in the clowns
Don't bother they're here

Isn't it rich, isn't it queer
Losing my timing this late in my career
But where are the clowns - send in the clowns
Well maybe next year

this is the second time i've posted this song this weekend

this one goes out to all the cavfancier fanciers

from the late great warren zevon

Keep Me In Your Heart

Shadows are falling and I'm running out of breath
Keep me in your heart for awhile

If I leave you it doesn't mean I love you any less
Keep me in your heart for awhile

When you get up in the morning and you see that crazy sun
Keep me in your heart for while

There's a train leaving nightly called when all is said and done
Keep me in your heart for while

Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-li-li-lo
Keep me in your heart for while

Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-li-li-lo
Keep me in your heart for while

Sometimes when you're doing simple things around the house
Maybe you'll think of me and smile

You know I'm tied to you like the buttons on your blouse
Keep me in your heart for while

Hold me in your thoughts, take me to your dreams
Touch me as I fall into view
When the winter comes keep the fires lit
And I will be right next to you

Engine driver's headed north to Pleasant Stream
Keep me in your heart for while

These wheels keep turning but they're running out of steam
Keep me in your heart for while

Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-li-li-lo
Keep me in your heart for while

Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-li-li-lo
Keep me in your heart for while

Keep me in your heart for while

Still crying.........................

Stand By Me - Ben E. King

[Written by Ben E. King, Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller]

When the night has come
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only light we'll see
No I won´t be afraid, no I won't be afraid
Just as long as you stand, stand by me

And darlin', darlin', stand by me, oh now now stand by me
Stand by me, stand by me

If the sky that we look upon
Should tumble and fall
And the mountains should crumble to the sea
I won't cry, I won't cry, no I won't shed a tear
Just as long as you stand, stand by me

And darlin', darlin', stand by me, oh stand by me
Stand by me, stand by me, stand by me-e, yeah

Whenever you're in trouble won't you stand by me, oh now now stand by me
Oh stand by me, stand by me, stand by me
Darlin', darlin', stand by me-e, stand by me
Oh stand by me, stand by me, stand by me

Everyone, it is wonderful to know that people here cherish Cavfancier and his wife. Therein lies immortality. I think Cav would want us to get on with our lives and walk in the world for him.

The songs were a perfect eulogy, and so apt for this sobering situation.

We knew you, sight unseen,
We shared your face and felt your humor keen,
We saw you in your writing and cuisine,
The wonder that is love
Will always be,
A part of what you left,
Our legacy.

Pioneer Author, Journalist Thompson Dies at 67
Pioneer Author, Journalist Thompson Dies at 67
By CATHERINE TSAI, AP
02/21/05

ASPEN, Colo. (Feb. 20) - Hunter S. Thompson, the acerbic counterculture writer who popularized a new form of fictional journalism in books like "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," fatally shot himself at his Aspen-area home, his son said. He was 67.

"Hunter prized his privacy and we ask that his friends and admirers respect that privacy as well as that of his family," Juan Thompson said in a statement released to the Aspen Daily News.

Pitkin County Sheriff officials confirmed to The Associated Press that Thompson had died Sunday night of an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound. Thompson's wife, Anita, was not home at the time.

Besides the 1972 drug-hazed classic about Thompson's visit to Las Vegas, he also wrote "Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail '72." The central character in those wild, sprawling satires was "Dr. Thompson," a snarling, drug- and alcohol-crazed observer and participant.

Thompson is credited with helping to pioneer New Journalism - or, as he dubbed it, "gonzo journalism" - in which the writer made himself an essential component of the story. Much of his earliest work appeared in Rolling Stone magazine.

"Fiction is based on reality unless you're a fairy-tale artist," Thompson told the AP in 2003. "You have to get your knowledge of life from somewhere. You have to know the material you're writing about before you alter it."

An acute observer of the decadence and depravity in American life, Thompson also wrote such collections as "Generation of Swine" and "Songs of the Doomed." His first ever novel, "The Rum Diary," written in 1959, was first published in 1998.

Thompson was a counterculture icon at the height of the Watergate era, and once said Richard Nixon represented "that dark, venal, and incurably violent side of the American character."

Thompson also was the model for Garry Trudeau's balding "Uncle Duke" in the comic strip "Doonesbury" and was portrayed on screen by Johnny Depp in a film adaptation of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas."

Other books include "The Great Shark Hunt," "Hell's Angels" and "The Proud Highway." His most recent effort was "Hey Rube: Blood Sport, the Bush Doctrine, and the Downward Spiral of Dumbness."

"He may have died relatively young but he made up for it in quality if not quantity of years," Paul Krassner, the veteran radical journalist and one of Thompson's former editors, told The Associated Press by phone from his Southern California home.

"It was hard to say sometimes whether he was being provocative for its own sake or if he was just being drunk and stoned and irresponsible," quipped Krassner, founder of the leftist publication The Realist and co-founder of the Youth International (YIPPIE) party.

"But every editor that I know, myself included, was willing to accept a certain prima donna journalism in the demands he would make to cover a particular story," he said. "They were willing to risk all of his irresponsible behavior in order to share his talent with their readers."

The writer's compound in Woody Creek, not far from Aspen, was almost as legendary as Thompson. He prized peacocks and weapons; in 2000, he accidentally shot and slightly wounded his assistant, Deborah Fuller, trying to chase a bear off his property.

Born July 18, 1937, in Kentucky, Hunter Stocton Thompson served two years in the Air Force, where he was a newspaper sports editor. He later became a proud member of the National Rifle Association and almost was elected sheriff in Aspen in 1970 under the Freak Power Party banner.

Thompson's heyday came in the 1970s, when his larger-than-life persona was gobbled up by magazines. His pieces were of legendary length and so was his appetite for adventure and trouble; his purported fights with Rolling Stone editor Jann Wenner were rumored in many cases to hinge on expense accounts for stories that didn't materialize.

It was the content that raised eyebrows and tempers. His book on the 1972 presidential campaign involving, among others, Edmund Muskie, Hubert Humphrey and Nixon was famous for its scathing opinion.

Working for Muskie, Thompson wrote, "was something like being locked in a rolling box car with a vicious 200-pound water rat." Nixon and his "Barbie doll" family were "America's answer to the monstrous Mr. Hyde. He speaks for the werewolf in us."

Humphrey? Of him, Thompson wrote: "There is no way to grasp what a shallow, contemptible and hopelessly dishonest old hack Hubert Humphrey is until you've followed him around for a while."

The approach won him praise among the masses as well as critical acclaim. Writing in The New York Times in 1973, Christopher Lehmann-Haupt worried Thompson might someday "lapse into good taste."

"That would be a shame, for while he doesn't see America as Grandma Moses depicted it, or the way they painted it for us in civics class, he does in his own mad way betray a profound democratic concern for the polity," he wrote. "And in its own mad way, it's damned refreshing."