He used to travel & sing with Woody Guthrie in the 30's, dandled Arlo on his knee in the 50's now Arlo's an old fart with long white hair...with grandkids... ...yet Pete's still bouncin' around doing 'Sing-Alongs'
AMAZING!
_________________________ . "...or am I a butterfly dreaming she's a woman?"
Mister Thompson calls the waiter, orders steak and baked potato Then he leaves the bone and gristle and he never eats the skins; The busboy comes and takes it, with a cough contaminates it And puts it in a can with coffee grinds and sardine tins; The truck comes by on Friday and carts it all away; And a thousand trucks just like it are converging on the Bay, oh,
Garbage (garbage, garbage, garbage) Garbage! We’re filling up the sea with garbage (garbage. . .) What will we do when there’s no place left To put all the garbage? (garbage. . .)
Mr. Thompson starts his Cadillac and winds it down the freeway track Leaving friends and neighbors in a hydro-carbon haze; He’s joined by lots of smaller cars all sending gases to the stars. There they form a seething cloud that hangs for thirty days. And the sun licks down into it with an ultraviolet tongue. Till it turns to smog and settles down and ends up in our lungs, oh,
Garbage (garbage. . .) Garbage! We’re filling up the sky with garbage (garbage. . .) What will we do When there’s nothing left to breathe but garbage (garbage. . .)
Getting home and taking off his shoes he settles down with the evening news, While the kids do homework with the TV in one ear While Superman for the thousandth time sells talking dolls and conquers crime Dutifully they learn the date of birth of Paul Revere. In the paper there’s a piece about the mayor’s middle name, And he gets it done in time to watch the all-star bingo game, oh,
Garbage (garbage. . .) We’re filling up our minds with garbage Garbage (garbage. . .) What will we do when there’s nothing left to read And there’s nothing left to need And there’s nothing left to watch And there’s nothing left to touch And there’s nothing left to walk upon And there’s nothing left to talk upon Nothing left to see And there’s nothing left to be but Garbage (garbage. . .)
In Mister Thompson’s factory, they’re making plastic Christmas trees Complete with silver tinsel and a geodesic stand The plastic’s mixed in giant vats from some conglomeration That’s been piped from deep within the earth or strip-mined from the land. And if you question anything, they say, “Why, don’t you see? It’s absolutely needed for the economy,” oh,
Oh, Garbage! Garbage! Garbage! Garbage! There stocks and their bonds — all garbage! Garbage! Garbage! Garbage! Garbage! What will they do when their system goes to smash There’s no value to their cash There’s no money to be made But there’s a world to be repaid Their kids will read in history books About financiers and other crooks And feudalism, and slavery And nukes and all their knavery To history’s dustbin they’re consigned Along with many other kinds of garbage. Garbage! Garbage! Garbage! Garbage!
_________________________ . "...or am I a butterfly dreaming she's a woman?"
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