"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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