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THE CROTON CANNONBALL
words and music by Andy Karp
Every weekday morning
I put on my tie and suit
And drive down to the station
To begin my long commute
Standing on the platform
My briefcase in my hand
Just an ordinary commuter
A nine to fivin’ man
Board the train
Find a seat
Settle down
Tap your feet
To the rhythm of the rails you’re riding on
I ride the Croton Cannonball
Rollin’ down the Hudson River line
Yes, the Croton Cannonball
Just a passenger train
With a load to haul
Not highfalutin’ or elite
You get packed in
Three to a seat
But you’ll hardly ever stall
On the Croton Cannonball
From Ossining to Greystone
The view is mighty fine
Arriving at Grand Central
It’s the end of the line
Work hard at the office
Eight long hours a day
‘til it’s time to punch the clock
And be on my way
Board the train
Find a seat
Settle down
Tap your feet
To the rhythm of the rails you’re riding on
I ride the Croton Cannonball
Rollin’ down the Hudson River line
Yes, the Croton Cannonball
Just a passenger train
With a load to haul
Not highfalutin’ or elite
You get packed in
Three to a seat
But you’ll rarely ever stall
On the Croton Cannonball
At Spuyten Duyvil I start my revival
My spirit really soars
When we hit Yonkers, I go bonkers
When I see those Hudson shores
I ride the Croton Cannonball
Rollin’ down the Hudson River line
Yes, the Croton Cannonball
Just a passenger train
With a load to haul
Not highfalutin’ or elite
You get packed in
Three to a seat
But you’ll hardly ever stall
On the Croton Cannonball
That’s all, that’s all, that’s all
That’s all, that’s all, that’s all
That’s all, that’s all, that’s all
That’s all!
© Andy Karp, 2011
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Lyrics by Robert Landy, Music by David Rinaldi
Verse 1
The train into the city, along the Hudson River
Sing Sing’s razor wire, white heron on a stone.
Verse 2
The train along the Hudson, the playground in the snow, the whitecaps on the water, the trees are bare and cold.
Verse 3
A houseboat on the water, the coast guard cruising by, the geese fly in formation, McMansions in the sky.
Bridge
Ah…. Ah….
CHORUS
The train speeds to the city, it runs along two rivers,
Commuters in their headphones,
A long, long, long way from home.
About eight hours later, the shifts are finally over,
The passengers load up again,
The train will bring them home again, the train will bring them home again
Verse 4
The naked weeping willows, on the banks of Spuyten Duyvil, apartment sales in Riverdale, an old dog in a yard.
Verse 5
The ring of Yankee Stadium, the canyon of the heroes,custom injection molding, Sin City on the sly.
Verse 6
The gateway to Grand Central, a hundred Harlem projects, half the car is texting, renovations everywhere.
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The Wild Wind is a history, in six minutes, of my home town, Croton on Hudson. 'Croton' is derived from the name of a Kitchiwank chieftain whose name means ‘Wild Wind’…which the song uses as a metaphor for constant change sweeping through a sequence of historical vignettes: from the Kitchiwank who first lived here, to the Dutch settlers, the Revolutionary War, intense labor battles surrounding the building of the Croton Dam, to John Reed, the communists up on Red Hill, the movie stars and artists who came here in the 20s…to the advent of the diesel engine and the four lane highway. Musically this song jumps from Crazy Horse-inspired rock and roll to lush orchestration, with a ragtime sequence for the 1920's narrative. The wind blows up the Hudson along the shoreline, and it really is wild.
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Snyder in the Suburbs Tim Robinson 2006
I’ve been reading Gary Snyder in the suburbs
He’s just a guy who wrote some poems in the woods
And there’s not much here to echo what he’s saying
Yeah there’s some trees, but then this sprawling neighborhood
Still I’ve seen a red-tail who hunts along the golf course
Little snakes slippin’ through the perfect grass
Although come winter that great bird he’s a stealing pigeons
Off of the cross county parkway overpass
What grace remains, child, where to start?
Is there no place wild left us but the heart?
No place wild… but the heart
No place wild left us but the heart…
The deer don’t mind the cold - they just get skinny
Once the priceless garden paths are bare at last
So they wander, ghosts of god’s own best intentions
Into to traffic then come flying through the glass
Of cars meant for driving up what mountain?
I guess this Snyder guy - he didn’t need that ride
No, he had boots, and soul, so he just got hiking
Carrying a cleaner fire deep inside
CHORUS:
Garry Snyder, or whoever, that doesn’t matter
The point is, all that’s real is being lost
That lies beyond the grid, the frail forever
Herds across the silent permafrost
And I know reading poems is no good answer
And I know one vote doesn’t change a goddamn thing
But there’s a red-tail still hunts along the golf course
And there’s still a little fury in his wings…
Still a little fury in his wings
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