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You would mention that just as I was about to go down to…

Cripple Creek
Monkees › Lyrics


Well I married a wife in the month of June,
Married her up by the light of the moon.
We live down on cripple creek.
We've been there about a week.
Chorus: I'm a-going down to cripple creek, I'm going on a run.
Going down to cripple creek to have some fun.
Going down to cripple creek, I'm going on a run.
Going down to cripple creek to have some fun.

Now cripple creek girls about half-grown,
Jump on a man like a dog on a bone.
Roll my pants up to my knees,
Cross on cripple creek a-when I please.
Chorus: I'm a-going down to cripple creek, I'm going on a run,
Going down to cripple creek to have some fun.
Going down to cripple creek, I'm going on a run.
Going down to cripple creek to have some fun.

well I'm going to cripple creek, I'm going on a run.
I'm a-going to cripple creek to have some fun.
Chorus: I'm a-going to cripple creek, I'm going on a run,
Going to cripple creek to have some fun.

The Monkees did that? Wow! Don't we learn something here on WA2K, listeners?

Well, Try, if you're going to a creek, just remember.........


I I I I I'm not your stepping stone
I I I I I'm not your stepping stone

You're trying to make your mark in society
Your using all the tricks that you used on me.
You're reading all them high fashion magazines
The clothes you're wearin' girl are causing public scenes.

I said
I I I I I'm not your stepping stone
I I I I I'm not your stepping stone
Not your stepping stone,
Not your stepping stone.

When I first met you girl you didn't have no shoes
Now you're walking 'round like you're front page news.
You've been awful careful 'bout the friends you choose
But you won't find my name in your book of Who's Who.

I said
I I I I I'm not your stepping stone
I I I I I'm not your stepping stone
Not your stepping stone,
Not your stepping stone.

hello folks, back again with another installment of my colour songs

i've been under the weather lately (well still am really), but this too shall pass :wink:

at least i hope so

and soon

Red Red Wine
UB40

Red, red wine
Goes to my head
Makes me forget that I
Still need you so

Red, red wine
It`s up to you
All I can do, I`ve done
memories won`t go
memories won`t go

I have sworn that with time
Thoughts of you would leave my head
I was wrong now I find
Just one thing makes me forget

Red, red wine
Stay close to me
Don`t let me be alone
It`s tearin` apart
My blue, blue heart

I have sworn that in time
Thoughts of you would leave my head
I was wrong now I find
Just one thing makes me forget

Red, red wine
Stay close to me
Don't let me be alone
It's tearin' apart
My blue, blue heart


---Red Red Wine Rap Section---


Red red wine you make me feel so fine
You keep me rocking all of the time

Red red wine you make me feel so grand
I feel a million dollars when your just in my hand

Red red wine you make me feel so sad
Any time I see you go it makes me feel bad

Red red wine you make me feel so fine
Monkey pack him rizla pon the sweet dep line

Red red wine you give me whole heap of zing
Whole heap of zing mek me do me own thing

Red red wine you know of love
Your kind of loving like a blessing from above

Red red wine I love you right from the start
Right from the start with all of my heart

Red red wine in a 80`s style
Red red wine in a modern beat style, yeah

(Chorus)

Give me little time, help me clear up me mind
Give me little time, help me clear up me mind

Give me Red wine because it make me feel fine
Make me feel fine all of the time

Red red wine you make me feel so fine
Monkey pack him rizla on the sweet dep line

The line broke, the monkey get choke
Burn bad rizla pon him little rowing boat

Red red wine I`m gonna hold to you
Hold on to you cause I know you love true

Red red wine I`m gonna love you till I die
Love you till I die and that`s no lie

Red red wine can`t get you out of mind
Where ever you maybe I`ll surely find
I`ll surely find make no fuss jus` stick with us.

(Chorus)

Red red wine you really know of love
Your kind of loving like a blessing from above

Red red wine I love you right from the start
Right from the start with all of my heart

Red red wine you give me whole heap of zing
Whole heap of zing mek me do me own thing

Red red wine in a 80`s style
Red red wine in a modern beat style, yeah.


I See Red
Split Enz

When my baby's walking down the street
I see red, I see red, I see red.
How could someone wicked walk around free
I see red, I see red, I see red.
I see re-ed, I see red (red!), I see re-ed.

I respect your wishes
You gave me such precious hours
What to do without you.
Squeezed me out of your life
Down the drain like molten toothpaste
I feel used and spat out.
Poor old me

When my baby's walking down the street
I see red, I see red, I see red.
How could someone wicked walk around free
I see red, I see red, I see red.
I see re-ed, I see red (red!), I see re-ed.

I'm fed up with crying
My despair is dying,
Turning into rage, day by day
Green before you met me
In the pink when you let me love you
I was blue when you let me down
Black and Blue

When my baby's walking down the street
I see red, I see red, I see red.
How could someone wicked walk around free
I see red, I see red, I see red.
I see re-ed, I see red (red!), I see re-ed.


Panama Red
New Riders of the Purple Sage

(Chorus)
Panama Red, Panama Red,
He'll steal your woman then he'll rob your head.
Panama Red, Panama Red,
His white horse Mescalino, comes breezin' thru town.
Bet his woman's off in bed with ol' Panama Red.

You just don't know when Red's in town,
he keeps well hidden underground.
Everybody's gettin' crazy fallin' out 'n' hangin' round.
My woman said, "Hey Pedro, you're actin' crazy like a clown."
Nobody feels like workin' Panama Red is back in town.

(Chorus)

Everybody's lookin' out for him cause they know Red satisfies.
Little girls love to listen to him sing & tell sweet lies.
But when things get confusin' honey, you're better off in bed.
Cause I'll be searchin' all the joints in town for Panama Red.

(Chorus 2x)

Welcome back, dear dj. We dedicated a song to you here, and that stepping stone could be an allusion. <smile>

We all want to take a second look at your Red songs, Canada, but right now I must eat. (chili with kidney beans, of course. )

This is cyber space, WA2K radio.

Frankenstein - Iced Earth


A mastermind in the old watchtower
Prying eyes must never find.
Playing God in the final hour
Insanity, such a fine line
Overwhelmed by the mourning process
And the loss of his dearly loved
The Doctor's work is now obsession
What is life? What's beyond?
He wants to know what it's like to be God
Creating life with his own hands
To reanimate lifeless tissues
The Devil's work, the doctors plan
A man of wealth and a genius mind
A slave to passion and his morbid side
Robbing graves of the nearly dead
Erratic tendencies, a troubled mind

I will create in my own image
If God can then why can't I?
No thought of the consequences
I've got to know the meaning of life

Lightning strikes, it's the witching hour
The monstrosity comes alive
A victim of man's vanity
Born in delirium, a deranged child
He turns his back on his own creation
Chaos ensues, the innocent die
Who's the monster?
Who's the victim?

Crucify!!! Crucify!!!

Well, dj, we've got red; we've got black; we've got blue. What a marvelous combination of colors, Canada.

Ah, but Letty is fat and full and must say goodnight.

Blowing everyone a kiss.

From Letty with love.

Good morning, WA2K listeners and contributors.

well, we missed edgar's macabre song last evening. You know, Texas, that is really good if a little on the Tesla side. Wow!

Let's begin our day with a former Cat:

Cat Stevens
» Morning Has Broken


Morning has broken like the first morning,
blackbird has spoken like the first bird.
Praise for them singing, praise for the morning,
praise for them springing, fresh from the world.

Sweet the rain's new fall sunlit from heaven,
like the first dew all on the first grass.
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden,
sprung in completeness where his feet pass.

Mine is the sunlight ! Mine is the morning
born on the one light Eden saw play !
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God's recreation of the new day.

Ah, the phases of religion, listeners.

There is a young cowboy he lives on the range
His horse and his cattle are his only companions
He works in the saddle and he sleeps in the canyons
Waiting for summer, his pastures to change

And as the moon rises he sits by his fire
Thinking about women and glasses of beer
And closing his eyes as the doggies retire
He sings out a song which is soft but its clear
As if maybe someone could hear

(chorus)
Goodnight you moonlight ladies
Rockabye sweet baby james
Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose
Wont you let me go down in my dreams
And rockabye sweet baby james

Now the first of december was covered with snow
And so was the turnpike from stockbridge to boston
Lord, the berkshires seemed dream-like on account of that frosting
With ten miles behind me and ten thousand more to go

Theres a song that they sing when they take to the highway
A song that they sing when they take to the sea
A song that they sing of their home in the sky
Maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep
But singing works just fine for me

Good morning, dys. Love that James Taylor song. The man has managed to survive all manner of challenges, cowboy.

Here's one that I thought of this moring upon awakening:

Frank Sinatra - Along The Navajo Trail Lyrics

Every day, along about eveningWhen the sunlight's
beginning to paleI ride through the slumbering shadowsAlong the Navajo TrailWhen it's night and crickets
are callin'And coyotes are makin' a wailI
dream by a smoldering fireAlong the Navajo TrailI
love to lie and listen to the musicWhen the wind is
strummin' a sagebrush guitarWhen over yonder hill the
moon is climbin'It always finds me wishin' on a
starWell whatta ya know, it's mornin' alreadyThere's the dawnin', so silver and paleIt's time to climb into my saddleAnd ride the
Navajo TrailI love to lie and listen to the musicWhen the wind is strummin' a sagebrush guitarWhen
over yonder hill the moon is climbin'It always finds
me wishin' on a starWell whatta ya know, it's
mornin' alreadyThere's the dawnin', so
silver and pale (like a silvery veil)It's time to
climb into my saddleAnd ride the Navajo TrailRide
the Navajo TrailRide the Navajo Trail

Dalida

Hey !vous tous ou allez vous comme ca
Qu'es ce que c'est que tous ces cris de joies
Mais dis donc grand Père qu'es ce que tu fais là
A danser dans la rue comme Zorba
On dirait qu'il pleut là bas regarde
Le bon Dieu nous offre le champagne
C'est la fête à qui c'est le printemps de quoi
On en sais rien mais on y vas

Jouez Bouzouki, jouez Bouzouki
Que l'hiver vole en éclat
Jouez Bouzouki, jouez Bouzouki
Pour moi
Jouez Bouzouki, jouez Bouzouki
C'est la fête à qui voudras
Jouez Bouzouki, jouez Bouzouki
Pour moi

Il nous arrive de tous les cotés
Des gens qui n'avaient jamais dansés
Il y a des femmes en noir et en couleurs
Des enfants qui rient et des vieux qui pleurent
Tambourin, Guitare et Marimba
Le matin ne s'en remettra pas
C'est la fête à qui c'est le printemps de quoi

Jouez Bouzouki, jouez Bouzouki
Que l'hiver vole en éclat
Jouez Bouzouki, jouez Bouzouki
Pour moi
C'est la fête à qui voudras
Jouez Bouzouki, jouez Bouzouki
Pour moi

{Instrumental}

Hey ! Bouzouki, jouez Bouzouki
Que l'hiver vole en éclat
Jouez Bouzouki, jouez Bouzouki
Pour moi
C'est la fête à qui voudras
Jouez Bouzouki, jouez Bouzouki
Pour moi.

Well, there's our Walter, folks, playing Zorba on a bouzouki. Delightful song, I think. <smile>

Welcome back, Germany. How about a translation?

I don't no much Greek besides some letters from the alphabet :wink:

How is this called: ξ ?

Well, as we await the inevitable, folks:


Simonides


These men left an altar of glory on their land,
shining in all weather,
when they were enveloped by the black mists of death.
but although they died
they are not dead, for their courage raises them in glory
from the rooms of Hell.

Their tomb is an altar on which stands our bowls of remembrance
and the wine of our praise.
Neither mold nor worms, nor time
which destroys all things, will blacken their deaths.
The shrine of these brave men
has found its guardian
in the glory of Greece. Leonidas, the Spartan King,
lives in the great ornament he left behind
of unending fame and virtue.

Stranger, go back to Sparta and tell our people
that we who were slain obeyed the code.

Leonidas, king of the open fields of Sparta,
those slain with you lie famous in their graves,
for they attacked absorbing the head-on assault
of endless Persian men, arrows and swift horse

This is the tomb of famous Megistias, slain by
the Persians near the Spercheios River,
a seer who even when aware that death was near
would not desert his Spartan Kings.

Most certainly different to what would pronounce it ... something like Xi (Heh! I actually stopped at Delta :wink: )

You pass the exam :wink:

Hello listeners, Letty mentioned the great Australian poet A.B (Banjo) Paterson the other day, and I thought I present you with one of his most famous pieces "The man from Snowy River". They have turned it even into a classical movie downunder. I hope you like it as it presents the typical Australian bushman from years ago.

The Man from Snowy River
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses ?- he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up ?-
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony ?- three parts thoroughbred at least ?-
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry ?- just the sort that won't say die ?-
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, ?'That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop ?- lad, you'd better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you.'
So he waited sad and wistful ?- only Clancy stood his friend ?-
?'I think we ought to let him come,' he said;
?'I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

?'He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.'

So he went ?- they found the horses by the big mimosa clump ?-
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, ?'Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills.'

So Clancy rode to wheel them ?- he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, ?'We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side.'

When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat ?-
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

Dutchy, marvelous. The meter is so easy to follow, honey. Thanks so much, because we love to hear history in song.

Come on, folks. Let's hear it for our Dutchy. <smile>

Maybe Ellinas can find the original in Greek for this song of Georges Moustaki:

Le Métèque (translation below each stanza, excuse its gaucherie)

Avec ma gueule de métèque
De Juif errant, de pâtre grec
Et mes cheveux aux quatre vents
Avec mes yeux tout délavés
Qui me donnent l'air de rêver
Moi qui ne rêve plus souvent
Avec mes mains de maraudeur
De musicien et de rôdeur
Qui ont pillé tant de jardins
Avec ma bouche qui a bu
Qui a embrassé et mordu
Sans jamais assouvir sa faim

With my dark foreign face, my face of a Wandering Jew, of a Greek shepherd and my hair to the four winds,
With my washed-out eyes that seem to dream, I who dreams so seldom now,
With my marauder's hands, my musician and my loiterer's hands that looted so many gardens,
With my mouth that drank, kissed and bit, without ever appeasing its hunger

Avec ma gueule de métèque
De Juif errant, de pâtre grec
De voleur et de vagabond
Avec ma peau qui s'est frottée
Au soleil de tous les étés
Et tout ce qui portait jupon
Avec mon cœur qui a su faire
Souffrir autant qu'il a souffert
Sans pour cela faire d'histoires
Avec mon âme qui n'a plus
La moindre chance de salut
Pour éviter le purgatoire

With my dark foreign face, my face of a Wandering Jew, of a Greek shepherd, of a thief and a vagabond,
With my skin that rubbed the Sun of every summer and everything that wore a skirt,
With my heart gave suffering as much as it suffered, without complaint,
With my soul that has no more chance of salvation to avoid purgatory.

Avec ma gueule de métèque
De Juif errant, de pâtre grec
Et mes cheveux aux quatre vents
Je viendrai, ma douce captive
Mon âme sœur, ma source vive
Je viendrai boire tes vingt ans
Et je serai prince de sang
Rêveur ou bien adolescent
Comme il te plaira de choisir
Et nous ferons de chaque jour
Toute une éternité d'amour
Que nous vivrons à en mourir

Et nous ferons de chaque jour
Toute une éternité d'amour
Que nous vivrons à en mourir

With my dark foreign face, my face of a Wandering Jew, of a Greek shepherd, and my hair to the four winds,
I shall come, my gentle captive, my soul mate, my wellspring,
I shall come and drink your twentieth year
And I shall be prince of the blood, dreamer, or adolescent
As it will please you to choose
And we will make of every day
An eternity of love
And we will live to die of it.

I think this is the original one, in French, as Moustaki lived and performed in France - the lyrics don't remind me something specific.