STUCK BLUES Come on, baby, we been up all night, trying to fix this thing and make it right. In spite of everything we say and do, we’re still together, stuck like glue. Stuck like lightning to thunder, stuck like Philistines to plunder, like bankers to money, like honey to hives. Is there a way to get out of here alive? Come on, baby, what are we to do? How many times have we said we’re through? How many oceans to keep us apart? Still each time I see you, we just have to start. Starting like the engine of an airplane, starting like two players in a fixed game, like Yankees and Dodgers, Giants and Jets. Is there a lesson that we haven’t learned yet? Come on, baby, let’s face the truth. We’ve been all through this from the basement to the roof. We keep repeating that we don’t really care, but we keep waking up in each other’s hair. Stuck like fleas to a dog, stuck like moss to a bog, like reflections to a mirror, grease to a stove, priests to their sinners, tide to a cove. Come on baby, can we figure this out? Each time we try, there’s still a lingering doubt. We’re stuck inside here, stubborn to the core. We keep on fighting our private civil war. We’re stuck like trees to bark, stuck like daylight to dark, like trains to tracks, like sharks in a tank. There’s no way out. We ‘ve got each other to thank. Come on, baby, I been up all night, trying to fix this thing and make it right. In spite of everything we say and do, we’re still together, stuck like glue. Like lightning stuck to thunder, like Philistines to plunder, like bankers to money, like honey to hives, we’re stuck together until one of us dies.

SKIN In the middle of the night, when you’re laying in my arms, and there’s nothing in between us ‘cept our skin, with the starlit sky hanging over us, I don’t know where you end and I begin. The clock is always ticking, and time is all we’ve got. Nothing lasts forever; still we try to make time stop. In the middle of the night, when you’re laying in my arms, and there’s nothing in between us ‘cept our skin, with the starlit sky hanging over us, I don’t know where you end and I begin. Because the truth can be evasive, though we chase it down each day, and the truth is where we face it, even when there’s hell to pay. In the middle of the night, when you’re laying in my arms, and there’s nothing in between us ‘cept our skin, with the starlit sky hanging over us, i don’t know where you end and I begin. Still there’s always more to pay after all that we’ve been through, but the bill just fades away whenever I’m with you. In the middle of the night, when you’re laying in my arms, and there’s nothing in between us ‘cept our skin, with the starlit sky hanging over us, I don’t know where you end and I begin. I’m not sure what becomes of us. Our paths may split or cross. I just know that when we’re apart, it’s me that feels the loss. In the middle of the night, when you’re laying in my arms, and there’s nothing in between us ‘cept our skin, with the starlit sky hanging over us, I don’t know where you end and I begin.

STREETS OF TEMPTATION Wine don’t do the job anymore as I wander through the streets of temptation. I’ve been wealthy and I’ve been poor, but I never once asked for salvation. The cries of judgment and lost regret . . . I’m thinking about the day we met, and suddenly I want a cigarette as I wander through the streets, wander the streets of temptation. Funny, after all these years my eyes are dry, there are no tears. My courage has been reduced to fear as I wander through the streets of temptation. Sometimes I feel victory over my own insanity, and then a veiled transparency is lifted off the streets, lifted off the streets of temptation. But dreams become nightmares at times. Occasionally, they turn into rhymes. The cost is sleep and hidden crime, as I wander through the streets of temptation. I don’t know, I’ve been told that fools are bought and wise men sold, that sand can hide fool’s gold paved on the streets, paved on the streets of temptation. I can’t calculate the price of peace, just know that it’s beyond my reach. My character is often impeached as I wander the streets of temptation

SLEEPLESS TILL DAWN I’m laying awake through the sunrise, thinking of when we last spoke. Troubled by thoughts, no peace can be bought as I read the last message you wrote. Why can’t we keep it together? Why must we struggle and fight? When you’re not with me, and we’re both free, I ‘m free to be sleepless all night. What is the source of this conflict? Why won’t this struggle be done? Did we have a say, or is it written this way before the first dance has begun? Why can’t we keep it together? Why must we struggle and fight? When you’re not with me, and we are both free, we’re free to be sleepless all night. I don’t know what you were thinking, but you sure weren’t thinking of me. What’s better unsaid when feelings are dead. We’ll each write our own history. Why can’t we keep it together? Why must we struggle and fight? When you’re not with me, and we are both free, we’re free to be sleepless all night. I wish that it could be different, and we both had the will to go on. Yes, now we’re both free. What that means to me? Free to be sleepless till dawn. Yeah, now we’re both free. What that means to me? Free to be sleepless till dawn.

BORDER TOWN Border towns are dangerous you can risk your life just ordering a beer got to watch your back while you look straight ahead make sure that you avoid those eyes that stare these border towns will raise your pulse get the blood pumping through your veins you’ll find trouble in or out of the law there’s much to lose and little that you can gain much to lose and little that you can gain these border towns have women in heels they’ll tempt you into doorways with their smile but they can gut you like a trout, eat your heart out Throw your bones in a dirty pile It’s impossible to tell good from bad It all blurs in a melted ball of wax you might get stabbed for your watch or your belt by a gang or a makeshift pack by a gang or a makeshift pack I’m going down to a border town feel like taking my life in my hands have myself something of an adventure in a good place to make my last stand a good place to make my last stand I’m going down to a border town maybe El Paso or Juarez feel like ignoring all good advice I don’t care what anybody says I don’t care what anybody says these border towns are rich in history each one has it’s own code you better learn to speak the language If you want to get along and grow old I’m leaving now for any border town where life and death are lived in the raw where the stakes are low and the game is rough and reality is too thick to ignore reality is too thick to ignore

NINETEEN YEARS OLD There was a funeral today. They drove him through the town, past the places where he used to play. Past the general store, past the merchandise, and the streets were cold. They were covered with ice. In my town, there was a funeral today. A hero was buried today. The flags were flying, the mayor had a speech to say, honoring the dead and the dying. Red, white and blue -- I saw the biggest flag I've ever seen waving over the village green. It was a sight to behold, and he was nineteen years old. There was a hero’s funeral today, while somewhere in the capital, not that far away, old men in business suits, their faces grey, went on about their routine day. Maybe some golf to play. But in my town, there was a funeral today. A hero was buried today. Police and firemen cleared the way, while someone murmured, “What a crazy price to pay! One more grave, one more wreath to lay. All those flags to unfold, and he was nineteen years old.” There was a hero buried today. On Main Street, they closed the traffic down as the procession made its way through town. The flags were flying, so many I couldn't see through all of that red, white and blue. There was a funeral today. Then the road was cleared. Just as quickly the crowd disappeared, kids running, playing down the street. I heard somebody say, "Let's go get something to eat." Yeah, in my town, there was a funeral today. And as I walked away, I couldn't help but wonder what the dead man might say about keeping the homeland safe and free, about deserts, about democracy. In my town, there was a funeral today. Now the wind's kicking up, and it's bone chilling cold. The box is underground. This story is told, and he was nineteen years old.

JUST LIKE JOHNNY CASH Riding down an empty road, moving way too fast. Seems like once again, I’m lost. Nothing worthwhile lasts. Once again it’s history that got the best of me. What does it take to stay in love in the struggle to be free? Riding down an empty road, it’s like a highway built for me. There’s somewhere else I’d rather be On a road to nowhere, any town will do. This one is familiar -- it’s called losing you. There’s a road to paradise, that’s what some may say. But for me, just like Johnny Cash, everyone I love goes away. I was born in solitude, and I’ll die alone. I feel just like a visitor, never found a home. Riding down this highway, alone in my own lane. Gonna drive so far until I forget my name. There’s a road to paradise, that’s what some may say. But for me, just like Johnny Cash, everyone I love goes away. How we lost each other? We’ll both speak to that. There’s what you think, what I think, too, and then there are the facts. Look out the window; see that barren tree. The leaves that bloomed in early spring blinded our fate to be. There’s a road to paradise, that’s what some may say. But for me, just like Johnny Cash, everyone I love goes away.

HAUNTED I’m just trying to do this song, trying to do it right so it don’t come out wrong. It’s been this way right from the beginning, haunted by Hendrix, driven by Dylan. No desire to be the host, but every night I visit these ghosts. Jimi playing with a backup band from down under and the promised land. Levon showed up, Rick Danko on bass, Richard Manuel all in the same place. Roy Buchanan, Mike Bloomfield, too. Johnny Cash singing ‘bout a boy named Sue. Keith Moon backing up Kurt Cobain, Stevie Goodman singing ‘bout the famous train. Harrison, Morrison shooting pool, Ruthie Brown watching from a bar room stool. I hear Hank Williams order up a beer, Elvis is yellin’ at the Colonel, “Man, you ruined my career!” Nico in a red dress; I’m hittin’ on her, but I get cut off by Rory Gallagher. Charlie Parker in a trenchcoat lights a cigarette, holding hands with Tammy Wynette. I’m just trying to do this song, trying to do it right so it don’t come out wrong. It’s been this way right from the beginning, haunted by Hendrix, driven by Dylan. No desire to be the host, but every night I visit these ghosts. John Lee Hooker, Stevie Ray Vaughan jam with Muddy Waters, not one note wrong. Papa John Creech sharing the stage, while off in a corner sits John Cage. I move on from room to room, spy Clifton Chenier with his zydeco spoon. Spirits dancing, shining their lights, an endless party on an endless night. I’m just trying to do this song, trying to do it right so it don’t come out wrong. It’s been this way right from the beginning, haunted by Hendrix, driven by Dylan. No desire to be the host, but every night I visit these ghosts. I move over to another space, Big Mama Thornton is rockin’ the place, Etta James, Billie Holiday wait their turn, while Janis Joplin makes the room burn. Gershwin, Monk, Dexter Gordon walk in, along with Cole Porter and Irving Berlin. John Lennon is strumming an acoustic guitar. James Dean keeps looking for the keys to his car. I’m just trying to do this song, trying to do it right so it don’t come out wrong. It’s been this way right from the beginning, haunted by Hendrix, driven by Dylan. No desire to be the host, but every night I visit these ghosts. Ronny Van Zant, Duane Allman are sliding, Allen Ginsberg reads a poem about worlds colliding. Albert King wails out “Hound Dog,” Jerry Garcia rides in on his hog. The floor is shaking and the walls are throbbing. Nobody’s mellow, ‘cept for Tim Hardin. And Frank Sinatra, so self-assured, dressed in a tuxedo, still the Chairman of the Board. I’m just trying to do this song, trying to do it right so it don’t come out wrong. It’s been this way right from the beginning, haunted by Hendrix, driven by Dylan. No desire to be the host, but every night I visit these ghosts. I walk through a portal to 1959, the year someone said that the music died. Buddy Holly, Richie Valens sit in easy chairs playing poker with Big Bopper. Smoke is fogging up the air. Byrd swings with Goodman, along with Buddy Rich, joined by Charles Mingus, still a son of a ****. Maybelle Carter sings a soulful lullaby, a crazy new rendition of “Spirit in the Sky.” I’m just trying to do this song, trying to do it right but sometimes it’s just wrong. It’s been this way right f