Thanks, Joe--for correcting me (I didn't remember the
knocking-at-the-door line, among other things. I
appreciate your posting the whole thing here--Candiice
--- joe green <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> "Walking Down Canal Street" is an obscene old
> drinking song from Roaring Twenties New York.
> There are countless variations and additional
> impromptu verses, but following is the short
> version:
>
>
> Walking down Canal Street,
> Knocking at every door --
> God-damn-son-of-a-bitch!
> I couldn't find a whore...
>
> Finally found a whore --
> She was tall and thin.
> God-damn-son-of-a-bitch!
> I couldn't get it in...
>
> I finally got it in,
> And wriggled it all about...
> God-damn-son-of-a-bitch!
> I couldn't get it out!
>
> Finally got it out --
> It was red and sore...
> God-damn-son-of-a-bitch!
> Should never'a screwed a whore! Max Hunter
> collected a version of this song from Charles Varley
> on January 19, 1967 in Hope, Arkansas (See here).
> This recording is now at on the Southern Missouri
> State University website online archive of the Max
> Hunter Collection.
>
>
> MC Ward <[log in to unmask]> wrote: Will this do, Hal?
>
> Canal Street
>
> Walking down Canal Street
> Looking for a whore
> Goddamn son of a bitch
> I cannot find a whore
>
> I don't remember the rest of the lyrics, but maybe
> someone else does(?).
>
> Candice
>
>
>
> --- Halvard Johnson wrote:
>
> > Oooh, we need more dirty talk around here.
> >
> > Hal
> >
> > "The true danger is when liberty is nibbled away,
> > for expedients, and by parts."
> > --Edmund Burke
> >
> > Halvard Johnson
> > ================
> > [log in to unmask]
> > http://home.earthlink.net/~halvard/index.html
> > http://entropyandme.blogspot.com
> > http://imageswithoutwords.blogspot.com
> > http://www.hamiltonstone.org
> >
>
http://home.earthlink.net/~halvard/vidalocabooks.html
> >
> >
> >
> >
> > On Sep 2, 2007, at 8:12 AM, Judy Prince wrote:
> >
> > > Two members and your ear were definitely right.
> > >
> > > joodles
> > >
> > > ---- andrew burke wrote:
> > >> I've listened to two members and my own ear,
> and
> > decided it either
> > >> had
> > >> to be formally rhymed and scanned, or rewritten
> > in local language (of
> > >> sorts) (the cadence of Kimberley speech). I've
> > opted for the latter
> > >> because I'm only halfway good at the other, and
> -
> > besides - who needs
> > >> another old fashioned sonnet? I now like the
> > shifts in register and
> > >> the imbalance between quoting a Dreamtime story
> > and a literary
> > >> theorist >g<
> > >>
> > >>
> > >>
> > >> (title) Gibb River Station
> > >>
> > >>
> > >> Multilingual birds sing over dry leaf
> > >> maracas on a sunburnt land. See them
> > >> bad-bugger Brahmin bulls at it - dry creek,
> > >> no tucker. Red cloud rises but no stockmen
> > >> see. They're in Derby on the piss. Home alone,
> > >> tribal law lady lies in bed, Gnarnygin
> > >> stories in her head: _After the mob left
> > >> Wandjina came and turned that snake into
> > >> stone._ I leave my desk to exercise and think.
> > >>
> > >> The Kimberley text is in shadow play,
> > >> outcrop and gorge, red dirt polyglossia
> > >> of crow claw, roo paw and grader wheels.
> > >> On the track, Benjamin heightens my tongue:
> > >> _translation marks their stage of continued
> > life._
> > >>
> > >>
> > >>
> > >> --
> > >> Andrew
> > >> http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
> > >> http://www.inblogs.net/hispirits
> > >> http://www.flickr.com/photos/aburke/
> >
>
>
>
>
>
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