Well, there is many a happy hour to be spent here http://thejeunessedoree.libsyn.com/

and there is Gamblers Three (standard, yeah I know, but it makes me happy) and "Weary Tune" which I like because it is all true and ends with Dylan...and there is "The Battle" about Poetry Wars and "The Great Flood" being a true account of my trip to Dartmouth to meet the saint who translated some of my poems.  Much there is funny.

And I humbly offer a few more songs:

De God Hole Problem: Jamaican Song
 
 Down de ribber in de land of Me
 De poetry flow automatically.
 De strophes be kickin’ where de Ganja’s free
 To all de people so naturally.
 
 You is sittin at home
 Writin’ a poem.
 You tinks you is playing God’s trombone.
 Den de Lady says:
 “Dat a terrible fabulum
 What you got dere is A GOD HOLE PROBLEM!”
 
 Way day I see my half brother John
 Singing a sankey wid another mon.
 What sweet nanny goat a go run him belly
 De Lady say dat de song is smelly!
 
 You is sittin at home
 Writin a poem.
 You tinks you is all alone
 Den de Lady says:
 “No matter how you cobble ‘em
 You skanky poem got a GOD HOLE PROBLEM!
 
 Thomas Mann say to Irene Dunne
 “Tell me gal when we’s having fun
 But de Lady says “You must do penance!
 You gots a GOD HOLE Problem in “A Death in Venice!”
 
 I know a land dat is far away
 De land is called de EveryDay.
 Kiss me neck ! Dey ain’t got no goblin
 Always talking bout de GOD HOLE PROBLEM!
 
 You is sittin at home
 Writin a poem.
 You tinks you is all alone
 Den de Lady says:
 “No matter how you cobble ‘em
 You skanky poem got a GOD HOLE PROBLEM!
 
  Kwanzaa Christmas Tango
   
  If you’re rich, then everything’s easy
  You just take a jaunt to Belize
  And sit on the beach and dare eat that peach
  And you hardly ever feel queasy.
   
  If you’re poor, you ain’t in no trouble
  If there is a stock market bubble
  You fell quite rested with nothin’ invested
  And when it breaks you get nothin’ in double.
   
  But what can you do if you is a Christmas tree Jew
  And it’s the third night of Kwanzaa
  And you’re black and Catholic and Argentinean too?
  You just sing like Mario Lanza
   
  “O Solo mio
  I love Dolores Del Rio
  But my sheikhy dashiki’s on fire
  And Bacall was so hot
  In “To Have and Have Not”
  And if you say not you’re a liar.”
   
  And you is alone as you is writin’ this poem
  Alas for the Jeunesse Doree
  You is alone.  Alone in your home
  And there’s only one thing you can say:
   
  “O Solo mio
  I love Dolores Del Rio
  But my sheikhy dashiki’s on fire
  And Bacall was so hot
  In “To Have and Have Not”
  And if you say not you’re a liar.”
  

  The Tall Hair Blues
     They say I'm ugly and they're right I guess.
 They say I'm ugly and they're right I guess.
 Some say I look like a plugged up Porgy.
 Some say I look like a drunked up Bess.
 
 Went down to the Mojo Man asked him what I can do.
 Went down to the Mojo asked him what I can do.
 Told him I want some of that sweet sweet loving too.
 
 He said "Drink this potion. Then get outta my place.
 Drink up this motion potion and get outta my place.
 Give me fifty dollars. I don't want to see your face.
 
 You'll look like a Beatle. That potion make your hair grow long.
 Maybe you'll look like Ringo. But your hair gonna be long.
 Maybe you got an ugly hairstyle. Maybe that’s all that's wrong."
 
 But I ain't like the others. Hair roll and flow so beautifully.
 But I ain't like all the others. Hair roll and flow so beautifully.
 I'm the Lonliest Ranger. My poor hair grow vertically!
 
 Went down to South Philly. Gals give me such looks!
 Went walking down South street. All the gals give me those looks.
 One said "Hey mister, you in those record books?"
 
 Walked away from those mean women. Hair got caught up on a electric wire.
 Walked away from those mean women. Wire was twenty feet or higher.
 Listen to em all. "That funny man's on fire."
 
 When you got tall hair you're gonna ride the Midnight train.
 When you got tall hair you're gonna ride the Midnight train.
 Have to sit on top of the coal car. Smokestack lightning in your brain.
 
 The Tall Hair Blues.
  
    
  The Ballad of Miss Victoria Minh
 
 I was merry and sad and then sad and merry
 When I got off the bus: Downtown Tucumcari.
 My friend Hunter had called just two weeks before.
 “Come visit me Dooley I'm home from the war!”
 
 He picked me up there and I said "What luck!"
 Threw my old army duffle in his Ford Flatbed truck.
 I asked "How'd you do it?" He said with a grin
 "I guess you remember Miss Victoria Minh."
 
 Miss Victoria Minh she had Saigon eyes:
 Thousand yard stare and it was no surprise
 That Thomas E. Hunter had Saigon eyes too
 Like Victoria Minh's -- but his eyes were blue.
 
 "Tell you what, Dooley do you remember that bar?
 One of those places you don't want to know where you are."
 "Yeah, it was there that you said "Let the Viet Cong win."
 Then went into the back with Miss Victoria Minh."
 
 "I thought just the usual whore and we went to the back
 But I seemed to have lost my plan of attack.
 You think you are dead then something else dies.
 I couldn't stop looking at her Saigon eyes."
 
 "You already know, Dooley, it was my second tour"
 "Yeah, I already know what are you tellin' me for?"
 "I didn't want to go back. But I thought there's something you owe
 To all of those guys got killed at Pleih Troeh.
 
 She told me she had a family got killed at Pleiku
 Are you listening Dooley? I'm talkin' to you.
 You think you are dead then something else dies.
 She said she couldn't stop looking at my Saigon eyes."
 
 She said, "You go right now and you have to pay."
 She said, "You come see me tomorrow day. "
 "The next day she gave me a phony passport
 And I left Vietnam a hundred days short."
 
 We were merry and sad and then sad and merry
 We drove out to the desert outside Tucumcari.
 Forgot all about all those usual dooms
 Under the stars with those magic mushrooms.
 
 I had my usual visions which consist in the main
 Of a convertible Thunderbird in the desert rain.
 American roadrunner chasing Wil. E. Coyote
 I turned to Hunter said "That's good peyote.
 
 "What are you seeing? I turned to him.
 He said "Peace falling like rain on Victoria Minh."
 Then he seemed to have found his plan of attack.
 Walked out to the desert and never came back.
 
 You better believe that this is an American song.
 I won't admit we did anything wrong.
 So put down your glasses once full to the brim
 For Thomas E. Hunter and Miss Victoria Minh. 
 
 And then have a last drink to Victoria Minh
 Who would help a guy out who wouldn’t go in. 
 Have a last drink to Miss Victoria Minh
 Who would help a guy out who wouldn’t go in.
    The Deaths of Cruel Joe Green
 
 Some are pleasant. Some are nice.
 And some are simply mean.
 But all agreed that fire and ice
 Should rub out old Joe Green
 And chief among them all was God
 Which Joe Green thought so very odd.
 Cruel, cruel Joe Green
 
 After the first death there is no other.
 “Except for Joe,” sneered God’s great mother
 “He shall die nineteen”.
 Cruel, cruel Joe Green .
 
 First he died in Arizona. 
 He did not stop singing “My Shirona.”
 Squashed quite flat on the macadam.
 He thought “I guess that’s that.” 
 Then a cat pissed at him.
 Cruel, cruel Joe Green.
 
 Then God put him on a log
 And ordered him to do the frog.
 Joe smiled and said “I guess I’m willin’
 This all reminds me of Bob Dylan.”
 And before he sank into the bog
 He was pissed on by a yellow dog.
 Cruel, cruel Joe Green.
 
 Then God made Joe read Silliman, Ron.
 Then insisted that he cry “Tres bon”
 Mean Joe died in a little while.
 Done to death by Ron’s prose style.
 Cruel, cruel Joe Green.
 
 And on mean Joe Ron micturated.
 And declared him somewhat dated.
 Cruel, cruel Joe Green.
 
 Then God took Joe by the behind.
 And filled his ass with turpentine.
 “I’m waiting for the rainbow sign!”
 Cried cruel, cruel Joe Green.
 
 The God threw Joe down to Guantanamo.
 But all Joe did was cry “Geronimo!”
 As he was waterboarded by a hippopotamo.
 Cruel, cruel Joe Green.
 
 The God chased Joe throughout the universe.
 “Fuck off,” cried Joe feeling somewhat terse.
 Joe ended up on the planet Jupiter.
 Which is bigger than Earth but somewhat stupider.
 “Shows God,” Joe said, “just how crass he is 
 This place is cold and too goddamn gaseous.”
 Cruel, cruel Joe Green.
 
 Then God caught Joe Green reading Shelley
 And put a weasel in his belly.
 Joe died but he could hardly tell he
 Was having fun just reading Shelley.
 Cruel, cruel Joe Green.
 
 The God sent down a plague of nitwits
 Liars, tyrants and religious hypocrites.
 Joe told them “I’m with the “I don’t give a shits.”
 About your bullshit you damn hypocrites.”
 Which made them all just keep on killing.
 Thing is, they were always willing.
 They see themselves. There are no others.
 There are no fathers and no mothers.
 Their’s is a universe of one.
 Which was sad and no damn fun.
 For cruel, cruel Joe Green.
 
 How many times now has God killed Joe?
 Eleven more deaths Joe has to go.
 And so he died. There were 19
 Horrible deaths for cruel Joe Green.
 
 “Dear God, said Joe, “19 seems plenty.
 But I’ll’ bet you can’t go for twenty.”
 “Oh, yeah,” said God “Here try some cancer.”
 But Joe kept singing “Tiny dancer.”
 
 Then how the universe admired him!
 The real God said it quite inspired him!
 
 The Real God? Yes, you see the old one.
 Was nothing but the same old told one
 Created by the usual haters, 
 Liars and exterminators
 Perverting the world’s great religions
 Justifying their decisions 
 And praising death so they might be
 The me in every thou and thee.
 
 “Well, then, said Joe, let’s see some action.
 We can’t get no satisfaction.
 Surrounded by all these usual versions
 Cruel and mean and vile perversions…”
 
 But then the real God fell asleep.
 
 “I pray the Lord your soul to keep.”
 Cried cruel, cruel Joe Green.
   
    The Iliad of Joe Green
 
 I beat up the Gamashay twins
 It was back in 61.
 My friend Johnny said to me
 Do you know what you’ve done?
 Do you know what you’ve done, Joe?
 Do you know what you’ve done?
 
 I looked up to my friend John.
 Looked up from my book.
 My book was the Iliad.
 I gave a John a dirty look.
 There’s no balm in Giliad.
 For those moronic twins.
 I caught the bastards going out.
 And caught them going in.
 
 It was my left hook, John.
 It was my left hook.
 
 Did you forget their cousin Frank?
 Johnny said to me.
 He’s built just like an M1 tank.
 And he’s back in town you see
 He’s 16 and he’s damn insane
 He already has a beard.
 He’ll take you like a freight train.
 Plus he’s really weird.
 
 I looked at John. Put down my book.
 I’m sure my eyes did narrow.
 Then I gave John a frightened look
 Thought of the falling of the sparrow.
 Tell me John, say it ain’t true.
 Their cousin from Wilkes Barre?.
 Their cousin from Wilkes Barre?.
 
 Yes, that’s who I mean, Joe.
 Yes, that’s who I mean.
 
 I ran back into my room.
 Stayed there for a week.
 I read and read the Iliad
 But I was somewhat meek.
 I tried to think just what to do.
 And concluded I would run.
 Living in Honolu -lu -lu.
 Might be rather fun.
 
 But the best and well laid lams
 Often go astray.
 My mother she did come to me
 At the dawning of the day.
 It’s a perfectly nice day outside.
 I want you to go out.
 I'm taking your library card.
 Go ahead and pout.
 
 Go ahead and pout Joe, go ahead and pout.
 
 I knew then my doom had come.
 So I snuck out outside.
 Look here the bastard is
 The Gamashay twins cried!
 
 And there like some damn dinosaur.
 Stood their cousin Frank.
 He was taller that he was before.
 Still built like an M1 tank. Lord!
 Still built like an M1 tank.
 
 Come here, you little shithouse rat.
 Cousin Frank did cry.
 And I saw just where my doom was at
 And knew that I would die. 
 But than I thought ‘If all is lost.”
 To Hell with all these willies.
 I would pay a terrible cost.
 But I’d take it like Achilles.
 
 And so I sneered at Cousin Frank
 And started spouting Greek.
 The first lines of the Iliad.
 I prayed my soul to keep.
 I almost got up to that part
 The great part in Line Nine.
 When I heard Line 10 In Homeric Greek
 And the voice it wasn’t mine.
 
 The voice it wasn’t mine.
 
 I stopped and stood in wonder.
 Seeing what I saw.
 There was a clap of thunder.
 Oh, the Gods exclaimed in awe.
 It was Cousin Frank reciting.
 Homer’s immortal verse.
 He was weak on the pluperfect.
 But, by God, I had heard worse.
 
 Weak on the pluperfect.
 But, by God, I had heard worse.
 
 And Frank and I smiled one to one.
 And left the rest behind.
 Two youths in a steel mill town
 Loving the life of the mind.
 We fell into discussion
 Of Homer’s metaphors
 And just what Herodotus
 Said of all those damn Greek wars.
 
 Frank and I strode out right then.
 From that steel mill town.
 I mean this metaphorically.
 You better write it down.
 I went on to a wild, wild youth.
 Frank stayed on the straight and narrow.
 And in three years led the Classics Club.
 At the University  of Wilkes Barre.
 
 Some come all of ye strange young lads
 Who love the classics well.
 But despair of ever leaving
 The awful Steel mill hell.
 Pay heed to this fine story.
 And know you might be free.
 Leaving the steel mills behind
 For the wine-dark sea!
  

MC Ward <[log in to unmask]> wrote: Great stuff, Joe!

It makes me think that you'd enjoy the songs Paul
Muldoon writes for his band, Rackett. You can find a
fairly large selection at rackett.org (under
Recordings).

Do you have anymore songs to share (please)?

Your fan,
Candice



--- joe green  wrote:

> I once had a gal and I did send her
> To hear Harold Bloom and Helen Vendler.
> Afterwards, ahe thought "Tres Bon!"
> And we spoke of Herbert and of Donne.
> 
>   We did Donne when Donne was done.
>   This was back in 71.
>   When we were done with Donne
>   Then we did Herbert
>   And Vaughn and Traherne before sherbert.
>   And those who were inclined to Pope.
>   Were very much inclined to dope.
>   And those who declined to Wallace Stevens
>   Were left alone. We had our reasons.
>    
>   You is young and you think you’re wise.
>   Then your museum burns down and your elephant
> dies.
>    
>   Many years have passed and it isn’t far
>   Through Villion, Nashe and then Dunbar.
>    
>   You is gettin’ old and you think you’re wise.
>   Then your museum burns down and your elephant
> dies.
>    
>   More years have passed and now I see
>   I’m very much inclined to me
>   In my little boat on the wine dark sea.
>    
>   You is old and you think you’re wise.
>   Then your museum burns down and your elephant
> dies.
>   
> 
>  
> 
> 
> Roger Day  wrote: I was
> confused. I didn't understand your usage of
> "generative".  At
> first, I took it to mean some sort of sub-type of
> art historian. Now I
> see you meant it as someone who created content that
> generated more
> content by others.
> 
> Thinking in types, and sub-types does tend to colour
> my approach. I'll
> be glad when I can stop thinking like that.
> 
> Roger
> 
> On 4/14/07, Barry Alpert  wrote:
> > Roger,
> >
> > I'm not sure if I get your particular usage
> "a.n.other historian", but the
> > two figures I cite, Moira Roth & Annette
> Michelson, incited a considerable
> > amount of creative, critical, and historical work
> by others (including my
> > own) which got its start from their initial
> contributions.  I was going to
> > mention Rosalind Krauss as well, but then my
> directive experience of her
> > entered in and I realized that she was probably
> less generative (in a
> > measurable way).
> >
> > Barry
> >
> > On Sat, 14 Apr 2007 20:37:45 +0100, Roger Day 
> wrote:
> >
> > > What's the difference between a "generative art
> historian" and
> > >a.n.other historian?
> >
> 
> 
> -- 
> My Stuff: http://www.badstep.net/
> "Patriotism is a virtue of the vicious." Oscar Wilde
> 
> 
>        
> ---------------------------------
> Ahhh...imagining that irresistible "new car" smell?
>  Check outnew cars at Yahoo! Autos.
> 


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