ANOTHER CONVERSATION WITH MYSELF
I’ve wasted more time speculating When will it get across? To fools that buy into the notion of “We’re sorry for your loss” Just give me a break, Guerrillas fight an Unseen enemy East of Cambodia While deep inside Danger ahead All hands on deck A band of brothers dying in a jungle For liars who’d never pick up a weapon to Stand post and watch In Southeast Asia or Iraq But they’re sorry for your loss, It’s the very conversation I’ve had so many times before Hapless forms of aggravation I told myself all this before Just a little conversation It’s déjà vu from ‘64 Another grave abomination I told myself all this before, Battle is not about Searching for some glory in it Go into a mortuary now The unsung of brave men will sacrifice not for a flag To die upon some soil they walk alone, King George Said it’s All right Sleep tight Reflecting on a Tuesday morning where two towers stood Was this all part of the plan? Lest you forget some September ahead Never be the same, It’s the very conversation I’ve had so many times before Hapless forms of aggravation I told myself all this before Just a little conversation It’s déjà vu from ‘64 Another grave abomination I told myself all this before, It’s the very conversation I’ve had so many times before Hapless forms of aggravation I told myself all this before Just a little conversation It’s déjà vu from ‘64 Another grave abomination I told myself all this before, Deceive the masses to insure Corruption motivates the war I told myself all this before Copyright 2005 Stephen Foglia Ramblood Publishing Company/BMI BARTERTOWN (2009) It was the winter of Seventy-two On the corner of Chestnut Avenue, Contemplating a teenage affair's Worth of pain that this heart hadn't known; In January's frozen air Adolescence embarked its question there, Choose any crying waif with a frown Crawling Main Street live in the Bartertown; So often you'll squander the rules Reminiscing some dreary afternoon, Branded by a trade going down At the scene of the lamenting clowns, Bartertown; Retain the summer of Seventy-six To the swoon of a ten cent guitar lick, A Minstrel's song complete In its social malfunctioning grace; The woman's face I dared to beguile Wanton in brandish Gallic style, Is just a glimpse of the tail Through the Bartertown annuls of love for sale; And as the spring of Seventy-nine Brought no ears to the deaf or sight to the blind, Pervasive passion awaits In her dreams while she still tries to hide From the solace mistake in her eyes; Wearing a black dress until it comes down Write the scene of the lamenting clown, Bartertown; Succumb the autumn of Eighty-eight From a green and white pub of Irish taste, Another toast to hanging the bar In a waitress's rapture of charm; Cheers to ignite her Cuban flame I lost long before my cards were played, And never realized from the start Fascination submits to a vagrant heart; Nothing's changed since Seventy-two Where the malt's poured on Bachman Avenue, When I remember that trysting place As a Cranberry House in disguise; And so I bid you the Bartertown, If it's boring you haven't even found One reason worth staying in, erase, That is, seeing its demise, As she haunts you with smoke in her eyes Wearing a black skirt until it comes down Write the scene of the lamenting clown; Bartertown got a town Copyright 1995, 2009 Stephen Foglia Ramblood Publishing Company/BMI BLACK IS THE COLOR OF MY TRUE LOVE’S CAR Black is the paint Zero lag constraints No car’s ever beat Her ‘Vette on these streets Last night, just as every other this week in some chaotic abyss I
became enthralled once again by the vile vixen and her Lingenfelter twin -
turbo Z06. A charming yet elusive 505 stock horsepower pumped up to about 750
at the rear wheels, long straight ash blond hair, four hundred and twenty
seven cubic inch displacement, chestnut brown eyes, titanium connecting rods,
a 5’7” frame; It doesn’t matter where we spar Her Bowtie leaves the road a scar Black is the color of her car Define speed Her turbo thrust Maintains my lust Innate G forces Eight hundred horses It doesn’t matter where we spar Her Bowtie leaves the road a scar Black is the color of her car Define speed Chevy’s best and fastest; smoking the Vipers, Cobras, F430s, S600s, and
twin-turbo Carreras, as well as all of it’s sibling C4s, TAs, Goats, SSs,
Z-28s and C5s. Even classic super- charged 426 Hemi MOPARs are no match for
this fucking ‘Vette from hell; It doesn’t matter where we spar Her Bowtie leaves the road a scar Black is the color of her car Street tires find Mid – nines, sick times I’ll take this ‘Vette You make your bet Six-speed paddle shift transmission with automatic modes, a 40 inch
rear end, 19 inch wheels, a 27 inch waist,0 to 60 in about 3 seconds, a
playmate’s face, ¼ mile times in the mid – nines, with a top end of over two
hundred and thirty miles per hour, Getting rubber from all six gears in the greatest engineering marvel
the General had ever created. Yes, I know I’m a worthless prick for my abuse
and I think I like her, but I know I love this car much more especially since
I don’t have to make any payments, worry about insurance, registration or
bullshit car repairs; It doesn’t matter where we spar Her Bowtie leaves the road a scar Black is the color of her car It doesn’t matter where we spar Her Bowtie leaves the road a scar Black is the color of her car Define speed Copyright 2009 Stephen Foglia Ramblood Publishing Company/BMI IN THE END You know what it's like, dreams don't stay forever The last time I saw miracles I can't even remember You know what it's like, searching for an answer When you might believe it are you scared to even try I know what it's like, being quite alone A warm body waiting at home but no friend to call my own You know what it's like, and ask if I'm sincere We're always known so little shown Maybe you could tell me in the end, You know what it's like, I fell prey to passion “Love is blind” had caught my eye and had nowhere to run You know what it's like, meaning who needs you too girl? If you decide to stay with me would you still believe me in the end, Time waits for no one we're all getting older As one escapes into fantasy, You know that's not how it's supposed to be, If you don't want to listen dear then, take the time to tell me what you fear; Uh ha? I know what it's like, a chance that I could make you see All the time I’ve waited if it means that much to me You know what it's like, I told you it all before Dreams don't last forever darling, would it really matter in the end, Would you still believe me in the end, Maybe you could tell me in the
end, Next time won't be therefore in the end repenting reminiscing in the
end Copyright 1978, 2002 Stephen Foglia Ramblood Publishing Company/BMI ISLAND IN THE SOUND/ SEATTLE WAITS Midnight the stormy sound arises on the docks A flagship of the northwest sails on through the dark As they ride the Ides of March The brave don't count their fear before they're gone; Daylight there's a brown-eyed girl in Lincoln Park her raven hair's invited one familiar spark If she only breaks your heart Will you count the tears before she's gone; Romance, find your ticket and afford to make the chance I know Seattle takes, it's my fortune The girl with a raincoat staring at an island in the Sound; Lorraine tastes bittersweet in Sea-Fare Town But only for the moment have I one regret That alone she'll soon forget I won't count the years before I try; Romance, find your ticket and afford to make the chance I know Seattle takes, it's my fortune The girl with a raincoat staring at the quiet sound alone; The end is just a reason to get home As the fog rolls in from Vashon Island through this park here I'll leave an empty heart And I won't count the years before I'm gone I won't count the years before I'm gone. Welcome back the Golden West, my friend It's a cloudy haze from the Bayshore exit You know King county doesn't make the same kind of rain; The lonely river runs dry and weary See the shadows of the ghosts on Geary This story travels from here to Monterey; While the base freaks are talking senseless On Ocean Beach, in the city of Saint Francis The sellers markets wide awake tonight Across the Bay; Seattle Waits How Seattle Waits Copyright 1995 Stephen Foglia Ramblood Publishing Company/BMI LIVING ON THE WESTERN SIDE Breeding generations of lazy spoiled apathetic whining sloths, Who really gives a fuck? On the western side Copyright 2002 Stephen Foglia Ramblood Publishing Company/BMI NEW RULES FOR THE NEW FOOLS Jackie drew his fate upon the bar From that Smith he put four shots with no remorse In Jimmy’s heart He went too far Vengeance paid for Stevie’s death Hails Jackie marked with no regrets Outside a State of Grace Beyond Times Square To die out there The docks abide with fratricide on New rules set for the new fools One time Kings of the Kitchen Full of bad blood deep from the old school east of the Hudson’s tears Pails of Bushmills Frankie make’s a pact with demon seed While Kathleen berates her tryst In Terry’s hoax She becomes some kind of priest Betrays her trust Consumes her lust He’s just a cop turned criminal with New rules set for the new fools One time Kings of the Kitchen Full of bad blood seeded deep from the old school east of the Hudson’s
tears Pails of Guinness Retribution found its way As fate would have Saint Patrick’s Day When Noonan shot them all So from the grave Jack’s soul was laid by Terry’s aim to Pat’s chest and Frankie’s head Beyond Times Square To die out there The docks abide with fratricide on New rules set for the new fools One time Kings of the Kitchen Full of bad blood deep from the old school east of the Hudson’s tears Pails of Bushmills New rules set for the new fools One time Kings of the Kitchen Full of bad blood seeded deep from the old school east of the Hudson’s
tears Pails of Guinness Jackie’s gone To die out there In Kitchens lair The docks abide with fratricide A suicidal warning Copyright 2009 Stephen Foglia Ramblood Publishing Company/BMI PORTRAIT OF A TENDABERRY GIRL I get a flame in my heart Every time I hear her voice of reverie She’s been alive from the start I can tell you as she comes down to surry, From Central Park westward To Broadway and East 3rd The Goth looking girl’s still there, I will drink a toast to Eli With some red and yellow wine It’s gonna take a miracle now To find a Tendaberry rhyme, I can see the thunder’s fury In her passion eyes of May And when I die throw trains of blossoms The New York, Tendaberry way; Laura I get a pain in my heart Just to think just to think She’ll never write one more song Laura And she was chic from the start Even when the business did her so wrong, As music keeps changing Her soul is raging You better hide your hearts, I will drink a toast to Billy With some red and yellow wine It’s gonna take a miracle now To find a Tendaberry rhyme, I can see the thunder’s fury In her passion eyes of May And when I die throw trains of blossoms The New York, Tendaberry way; From slow dance to romance My adolescent fantasy It would have been my honor then Just to walk with her through NYC, I get a flame in my heart Every time I hear Laura I can tell you as she comes down to surry, Critics are scheming Websites are screaming Stop analyzing her, I will drink a toast to Eli With some red and yellow wine It’s gonna take a miracle now To find a Tendaberry rhyme, I can see the thunder’s fury In her passion eyes of May And when I die throw trains of blossoms The New York, Tendaberry way; I will drink a toast in gladness To her passion eyes of May And when I die throw trains of blossoms The New York, Tendaberry way, Evermore to hear her play The New York, Tendaberry way; Copyright 2009 Stephen Foglia Ramblood Publishing Company/BMI Ramblood Recon Records THE BEGUILED Another night in south bay land the meek came out to play With all the dancing freaks in droves their boldness becomes quite
array Buying drinks all night to find a restless gap between her legs But is she so far amused or incensed with one more life to save Still throughout a band plays on completes the job hence they were paid
And might as well be whispering no one listens I’m not going to waste your time I get to work and read the room The zombie force arrived too soon This club is like an evening whore Serviced through its cover door The first set beckons to unfold The singer seems to have a cold Her vocals aren’t out of time Still the owner starts to whine
All the while the beguiled sets off in trance Abusing us with twisted forms of ballroom dance By now the groove has settled in The condescending management say “You guys sound like AWB, now turn it down and hear that beat.” It falls in place so typically A female screams hysterically The losers have started a fight Who’ll break my gear this useless night? All the while the beguiled sets off in trance Abusing us with twisted forms of ballroom dance Ironically the party ends The tenor didn’t make a friend When lines of Trane and Brecker find Drunken patron’s bump and grind All the while the beguiled sets off in trance Abusing us with twisted forms of ballroom dance As I reflect, into this bar a free man came up to me And asked what kind of strength I gathered all around my screaming lead I tried to say with my guitar it’s that which burns within my wave He just smiled then wished me luck ‘cause he felt I was meant to play End with that to hit the road headed towards the Yosemite way He never arrived the Pacheco Highway took him then It’s not going to waste your time Copyright 2004 Stephen Foglia Ramblood Publishing Company/BMI THE CEE TOE SHUFFLE Raze any wound Phase any mood Call out the demons Inside there Swooned by your moon, To say what he means Is not what it seems and be told Once he agrees You can find him Down to the knees, Rolling around with a simpleton clown isn’t getting you out of this
spot, Pushin’ a groove, makin’ the moves, keepin’ it loose, slick is the
goose, gettin' it on in the back of a GMC bed with another sick drunk for a buck, It’s not the place to copulate it’s time you did appreciate, Mary just hides the cee toe Until it gets down, Pending a mindless freak show, Making the rounds, Succulent barfly magnets Are painting the town A goddess, a witch exasperates, Baiting that mound, Wearing a frown, Under the gown; Waning in vain, And out of the game, The hope to succeed, With your quandary, Might be insane, Don’t test the fate, If he can’t relate, To deal or to not, Is the choice that, You shouldn’t make, Running around with a crankster in town isn’t getting you out of this
spot, Pushin’ a groove, makin’ the moves, keepin’ it loose, slick is the
goose, gettin' on in the room of a sordid hotel with another lame trick for a fix, Since you just want to fornicate it’s time you did appreciate: Mary just hides the cee toe Until it gets down, Pending a mindless freak show, Making the rounds, Succulent barfly magnets Are painting the town A goddess and witch exasperates, Baiting that mound, Wearing a frown, Under the gown; Chloe’s got a cee toe see through, Staci’s prone to shock the bistro, Julie’s fishnets aren’t retro Nikki’s tastes like Zen Shiseido, Marci’s done her cee toe see through proud; Raze any wound Phase any mood Call out the demons Inside there Swooned by your moon, Rolling around with a simpleton clown isn’t getting you out of this
spot, Pushin’ a groove, makin’ the moves, keepin’ it loose, slick is the
goose, gettin' it on in the back of a GMC bed with another sick drunk for a buck, It’s not the time to copulate when he cannot negotiate, Debbie’s got a cee toe see through, Heidi could care less what breaks through, Kelli’s sports a dancing exposé, Mary just hides the cee toe Until it gets down, Pending a mindless freak show, Making the rounds, Succulent barfly magnets Are painting the town A goddess and witch exasperates, Baiting that mound, Wearing a frown, Under the gown; Suzi’s got a cee toe see through, Jacquie loves her cee toe peak, but Mary’s got the cee toe shuffle down. Copyright 2009 Stephen Foglia Ramblood Publishing Company/BMI THE WELL RAT REVISITED The system weighed its scales inept today, Technicalities send vengeance on its way, As the well rat pleas, again, then walks away, Justice is caged once more, to lose in vain; Bobbi Sue, is twelve in May, A parent raised this child from love in pain, Frenzied looks the face, of rat's disgrace, When she becomes the victim from the rage; A girl morose, befalls Memorial Day, At twelve years old, alone she'll run away, And as Bobbi Sue, was raped in shame, The system's way that failed can take the blame, Mocking justice, wouldn't seek a well rat's grave Copyright 1997, 2009 Stephen Foglia Ramblood Publishing Company/BMI WHO TURNS FOR YOU At home alone The spouse left you in a money tree Lost between Hells behind all that make-up Not a sane design Sell the bling It’s under sized Your boat, fur coats 3 Benzes are sold Clearing out every trophy Tied to this vile tryst No soul, its old, just fold now, Who turns for you? It’s all you do To pay the fool As you get screwed, You can’t go back To cut some slack Just make the move And you will prove Your hapless state Can dissipate, Just dump your mate With your estate And you can vent When it’s all been spent Use every cent With no repent, You’ll nail this fight The pawn is running scared Many squares to beware, You can tell your dumb ex it was a waste of time As all the wealth is undermined, The scratch and patch Are gone, mere facts You’ve been through every hell, A lonely heart needs to start, With soul, be bold, just go now, Who turns for you? It’s all you do To pay the fool As you get screwed, You can’t go back To cut some slack Just make the move And you will prove Your hapless state Can dissipate, Just dump your mate With your estate And you can vent When it’s all been spent Use every cent With no repent It’s all you do As you get screwed, To pay the fool Who turns for you? Who turns for you? Copyright 2009 Stephen Foglia Ramblood Publishing Company/BMI ZEBRAS For those who can relate this is a tale inside the hate From the Raider Nation archive of most infamous of dates On December Twenty Third Nineteen Hundred and Seventy Two Where the banks of the Ohio and Allegheny form a slough Desperate Mr. Bradshaw threw a lame-duck down the field The Assassin’s hit on Frenchy should have all but closed the deal Somewhere through the shadows another 32 appeared And took an illegal catch into the endzone in full gear Counting zebras on the grass Might as well just wipe their asses With the little yellow flags That’s fifteen on the Silver and Black Here’s another true story you can all appreciate On New Years Day at Mile High in 1978 A back named Lytle fumbled on the two-yard line Once again it was Tatum hitting in a style so sublime Mike McCoy picked it up went 98 yards to a score But the zebras had their way acting like Rozelle’s little whores Nullifying that TD was so typical to us all What’s it gonna take to get some fair playoff games called? Counting zebras on the grass With the little yellow flags In disgust I heard the few Huddle of striped shirts screw A Stork, Branch, Snake, Ghost, Assassin Tuz, Atkinson Counting zebras on the grass Might as well just wipe their asses With the little yellow flags That’s fifteen on the Silver and Black, Ruining seasons one and all Incompetent bastards making calls In disgust I see the small Huddle of striped shirts with the ball A snowy scene in Foxboro set the tone for this retort To the single worst call in the history of modern sport What team retains possession if the QB loses the ball? And what’s the use of pass rush defused by judgment calls? Anyone with half a brain knew Woodson’s hit on Brady’s right Was a fumble recovered by Biekert in the worthless chilly night A season wrecked by zebras is nothing new to the Silver and Black Travesty is here forever; nothing gets it back Counting zebras on the grass With the little yellow flags Ruining seasons one and all Huddle of striped shirts with the ball In disgust I heard a true Incompetent bastard screwing Rich, Brown, Rice, Jett, C-Wood, Chucky, Big Al Counting zebras on the grass Might as well just wipe their asses With the little yellow flags That’s fifteen on the Silver and Black Ruining seasons one and all Incompetent bastards making calls In disgust I see the small Huddle of striped shirts with the ball Counting zebras on the grass Might as well just wipe their asses With the little yellow flags That’s fifteen on the Silver and Black Ruining seasons one and all Incompetent bastards making calls In disgust I see the small Huddle of striped shirts Copyright 2004 Stephen Foglia Ramblood
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