Samantha and I have divided this one between us, because it's really really long and, frankly, I didn't think that I was capable of dealing with the whole thing. (Samantha is, I think, just humoring me. Which is fine with me as long as I don't have to do the whole thing.)
I should admit that I really hate this song. I mean really, really hate. This hasn't always been the case, or at least it doesn't seem like it. But in my part of the Midwest, no matter where you are, it seems like there's at least one radio station that will play this song about every six to eight hours. At the moment, where I'm living, there are two such stations: one of them also plays "Me and Bobby McGee," a song I actually did like at one time, at least three times a day, and the other one also plays "Livin' on a Prayer," by Bon Jovi, like every other hour.
The "Livin' on a Prayer" thing is a little easier to deal with because I always hear "It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not" as "It doesn't make a difference if we're naked or not." So I prefer that station.
Anyway. So I hate this song through sheer overexposure. I have no idea whether it's a good song or not, I don't know what it's about, all I know is that I want Don McLean to die. Repeatedly, if necessary. And anyone who wants to write a twenty-minute song called "The Day 'the Day the Music Died,' Died" is just going to have to have to think long and hard about whether or not that's a good idea.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
A long, long time before,
I can remind myself calmly,
I used to like this music of educated smiles.
I mean, I knew, and, if probability had
let those people dance, then possibly I could,
and they would (for a while) be lucky.
However, I would supply a shiver
with each paper. (I, who
formed February!) Bad messages on the door;
I couldn't undertake the further stages.
Remind me if I cried, if I could not.
I read over his widowed bride, when
something deeply within me
affected the daily music, which died.
So good-bye, Miss American Cake.
Levee drove the Chevy to the mine,
but Levee was drying the
good old boys, and they were drinkin' whisky and singing "Rye!"
I am the day; this'll die.
Which day is this? I'll die!
You wrote the love book,
and have faith in your God, above the
Bible. Such a way explains it to you.
Can you believe in rock roles,
store your death in soul music,
and can you teach dances to me, or how one slows material down?
You're in the love with him; I
dance to that, because I see you know the gymnasium property.
They both stepped away from your shoes.
Man, I dig that blue rhythm.
I was a lonely broncing youth
with a pickup truck and a dollar pink carnation,
but I knew that luck was from
the day when the music died.
I caught on to sing,
"Good-bye, Miss American Cake."
Levee drove the Chevy to the Mine.
Levee was drying, but he
drank whisky and the good old boys' rye.
I'll die singing, "Which day is this?"
This day is the day in which I'll die.
For 10 years, we're on ourselves, which is
[Samantha] moss. Fat now grows on a stoner,
but that's not like it used to be.
When the fun bird sang for the king and the queen,
it sang in a coat it borrowed from James Dekan.
And you: a voice came from me, (from which of us?), and . . .
Oh, the king looked down, and during this,
the thornbird stole his crown. (Fun!)
The court room was rearranged;
a judgment pronouncement was returned. No,
Marx and Lennon read a book, during
practice by the park. In the quartet,
we sang dirges in the darkness, and
the music died that day.
"Good-bye, Miss American Cake!"
Levee drove to my Chevy,
but was it drying, Levee?
The old rye, and good whisky boys, drank,
singing, "And this is the day which'll die.
This day will die, which is me."