*Hear ye, hear ye
This court is now in session
His Honor, Judge Pigmeat Markham presidin
Hear ye, hear ye, the court of swing
It's just about ready to do that thing
I don't want no tears, I don't want no lies
Above all, I don't want no alibis
This Judge is hip, and that ain't all
He'll give you time if you're big or small
All in line for this court is neat
Peace brother, here comes the Judge
Here comes the Judge
Everybody knows that he is the judge
Everybody near or far
I'm goin' to Paris to stop this war
All those kids gotta listen to me
Because I am the judge and you can pl
Ah ha, hush that fuss
Everybody move to the back of the bus
Do you wanna bump and slump with us
We the type of people make the club get crunk
Many a day has passed, the night has gone by
But still I find the time to put that bump off in your eye
Total chaos, for these playas, thought we was absent
We takin another route to represent the Dungeon Family
Like Great Day, me and my nigga decide to take the back way
We stabbing every city then we headed to that bat cave
A-T-L, Georgia, what we do for ya
Bull doggin hoes like them Georgetown Hoyas
Boy you sounding silly, thank my Brough
Before and after school
on a milk crate
eyeballed the mirror
and only saw wayne turner
at tournament time
a third grader
just off the bus
barely four feet
off the ground
he dropped his books
sank a j’
from the top of the key
and heard the crowd roar
beat his man off the dribble
with a break yaneck
and slammed himself
on the cover of a box
he was out there
under a street light
fighting through double picks
to imaginary body checks
‘you can’t hold me fool’
‘this is my p
The gypsy woman told my mother before I was born,
“You got a boy child comin’, gonna be a son of a gun”.
Gonna make pretty women jump and shout, then the world gonna know what it’s all about.
I’m him everybody knows I’m him.
I’m the hoochie coochie man, Everybody knows I’m him, I him.
I got a black cat bone; I got a mojo too,
I got the Johnny conkeroo, I’m gonna mess with you.
I’m gonna make you girls lead me by the hand,
Then the worlds gonna know, I’m that hoochie coochie man.
I’m him everybody knows I’m him.
“Come, all you rounders, if you want to hear
The story told of a brave engineer;
Casey Jones was the rounder’s name,
A high right-wheeler of mighty fame.”
Of mighty fame, of mighty fame,
A high right-wheeler of mighty fame.
Casey pulled into the Memphis yard
Fed up, beat down and dog tired,
Another driver had called in sick,
Asking Casey to do a double trick.
Casey smiled, said, “I’m feelin’ fine,
Gonna ride that train to the end of the line.
There’s ridges and bridges, and hills to climb,
Got a head of steam and ahead of time.”
Ahead of time, ahead of time.
We used to tell each other erotic stories
at slumber parties when I was about ten:
We’d meet and kiss dark, handsome boys,
and then sink into sixty-year dreams
from which we’d wake up for church weddings
and to name our butterscotch babies.
From there we always jumped ahead
to the pooping-out party, and died laughing
into our silencing pillows at the way
we ‘d overdose on laxatives, and be dead.
We never dreamed of the face-making
self-reconstruction from scratch
we’d be engaged in for most of our lives,
of at thirty-four an ordinary day
on which an aspiration is adj
There is music in me, the music of a peasant people.
I wander through the levee, picking my banjo and singing my songs of the cabin and the field.
At last chance saloon I am as welcome as the Violets in March; there is always food and drink for me there, and the dimes of those who love honest music.
Behind the railroad tracks the little children clap their hands and love me as they love Kris Kringle.
But I fear that I am a failure.
Last night a woman called me a troubadour.
What is a troubadour?