Condemned Men

Here's the lyric to a song I wrote forty (yes, forty) years ago, and came on in my files. Sort of overly poetic folk-punk stuff, I guess, but I would be willing to perform (or  record) it still.

CONDEMNED MEN

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
Live as you can, die as you must.
Men grow old, steel becomes rust,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Never sing another man's song
Nor follow him in right or wrong.
The struggles all go to the strong,
Never sing another man's song.

We are all condemned men,
Doomed to lose, doomed to win.
Some do good, some will sin,
We are all condemned men.

We are afloat upon strange tides,
Over dark seas our vessel rides.
Who can find the need to take sides?
We are afloat upon strange tides.

Life must ever pass away,
It matters not that we may pray.
None will count how much we pay,
Life must ever pass away.

Stephen Brooke ©1986 

Over in the Meadow

'Over in the Meadow' is a well-known and oft-performed song for children. There have been numerous variants in the lyrics over the past century and some. This is the version I've worked out for my own use and may actually get around to recording someday.

Over in the Meadow

Over in the meadow, in a pond in the sun,
lived a proud mother duck and her little duckling one.
Quack, said the mother. I quack said the one,
and they quacked and were happy in their pond in the sun.

Over in the meadow, in a worn out shoe,
lived a proud mother mouse and her little mousies two.
Squeak, said the mother. We squeak, said the two,
and they squeaked and were happy in their worn out shoe.

Over in the meadow, in a hole in a tree,
lived a proud mother owl and her little owlets three.
Hoot, said the mother. We hoot, said the three,
and they hooted and were happy in their hole in a tree.

Over in the meadow, on a sandy shore,
lived a proud mother snake and her little snakes four.
Hiss, said the mother. We hiss, said the four,
and they hissed and were happy on their sandy shore.

Over in the meadow, in a snug bee hive,
lived a proud mother bee and her little bees five.
Buzz, said the mother. We buzz, said the five,
and they buzzed and were happy in their snug bee hive.

Over in the meadow, in a nest of sticks,
lived a proud mother crow and her little crows six.
Caw, said the mother. We caw, said the six,
and they cawed and were happy in their nest of sticks.

Over in the meadow, in the sight of heaven,
lived a proud mother lark and her little larks seven.
Sing, said the mother. We sing, said the seven,
and they sang and were happy in the sight of heaven.

Over in the meadow, in an old packing crate,
lived a proud mother cat and her little kittens eight.
Mew, said the mother. We mew, said the eight,
and they mewed and were happy in their old packing crate.

Over in the meadow, in a morning glory vine,
lived a proud mother cricket and her little crickets nine.
Chirp, said the mother. We chirp, said the nine,
and they chirped and were happy in their morning glory vine.

Over in the meadow, in a cozy little den,
lived a proud mother fox and her little kits ten.
Bark, said the mother. We bark, said the ten,
and they barked and were happy in their cozy little den.

This arrangement by Stephen Brooke ©2024

River, a poem

River

Razor wire in the Jordan,
no crossing to the  promised land;
can’t reach across the water,
can’t ever touch its sand.
Moon glistens on the metal,
on each sharp sentry strand;
razor wire in the Jordan,
no crossing to the promised land.

The river lies before us,
our dreams have brought us near;
they say we can’t go over,
they turn us back in fear.
No water in the deserts,
no water for us here;
the dreams have all run empty,
they’ve stolen every tear.

Razor wire in the Jordan,
no crossing to the promised land;
they call us criminals,
they keep the fires fanned.
We look across the river,
and try to understand;
razor wire in the Jordan,
no crossing to the promised land.

No wading in the water,
can’t reach the other side;
no rowing the boat ashore,
milk and honey are denied.
No baptism in this river,
flowing deep and wide;
as seekers we have come
but our prophets lied.

Razor wire in the Jordan,
no crossing to the promised land;
I can journey no further,
I can only stand,
knowing pain awaits
if I reach out my hand;
razor wire in the Jordan,
no crossing to the promised land.

Stephen Brooke ©2024

A poem or maybe a song. I don't usually write topical stuff but the phrase 'razor wire in the Jordan' was irresistible to me.