Sunday, 5 July 2020

The Story of Lake Marie



John Prine, RIP.

  


Never Gonna Let Him/Her Go! (09/04/20)



John Prine and Iris DeMent have great fun explaining how some couples stick together 'in spite of themselves'.

 

John Prine - 'Sam Stone' (09/04/20)



John Prine, the American songwriter, has just passed away as a result of complications from Covid-19.

I can still remember the words of Sam Stone, one of the first songs to make a really big impression on me as a teenager.

The song is about the aftermath of the Vietnam War - a conflict which Donald Trump avoided, of course.

Not because of any principled or conscientious objection on Trump's part, but because he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and the infamous drafting-dodging 'bone spurs' in his heels.   

   

Sam Stone by John Prine

Sam Stone came home,
To the wife and family
After serving in the conflict overseas.
And the time that he served,
Had shattered all his nerves,
And left a little shrapnel in his knees.

But the morhpine eased the pain,
And the grass grew round his brain,
And gave him all the confidence he lacked,
With a purple heart and a monkey on his back.

There's a hole in daddy's arm where all the money goes,
Jesus Christ died for nothin I suppose.
Little pitchers have big ears,
Don't stop to count the years,
Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios.

Sam Stone's welcome home
Didn't last too long.
He went to work when he'd spent his last dime
And soon he took to stealing
When he got that empty feeling
For a hundred dollar habit without overtime.
And the gold roared through his veins
Like a thousand railroad trains,
And eased his mind in the hours that he chose,
While the kids ran around wearin' other peoples' clothes...

There's a hole in daddy's arm where all the money goes,
Jesus Christ died for nothin I suppose.
Little pitchers have big ears,
Don't stop to count the years,
Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios.

Sam Stone was alone
When he popped his last balloon,
Climbing walls while sitting in a chair.
Well, he played his last request,
While the room smelled just like death,
With an overdose hovering in the air.
But life had lost it's fun,
There was nothing to be done,
But trade his house that he bought on the GI bill,
For a flag-draped casket on a local hero's hill.

There's a hole in daddy's arm where all the money goes,
Jesus Christ died for nothin I suppose.
Little pitchers have big ears,
Don't stop to count the years,
Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios.