Loudon Wainwright III 'Little Ship' Lyrics A Father and a Son Copyright ©1992 Snowden Music Inc. When I was your age I was just like you, And just look at me now; I'm sure you do. But your grandfather was just as bad And you should have heard him trash his dad. Life's no picnic, that's a given: My mom's mom died when my mom was seven; My mom's father was a tragic guy, But he was so distant and nobody knows why. Now, your mother's family, you know them: Each and every one a gem, Each and every one a gem. When I was your age I was a mess; On a bad day I still am, I guess. I think I know what you're going through; Everything changes but nothing is new. And I know that I'm miserable; can't you see? I just want you to be just like me. Boys grow up to be grown men And then men change back into boys again. You're starting up and I'm winding down; Ain't it big enough for us both in this town? Say it's big enough for us both in this town. When I was your age I thought I hated my dad And that the feeling was a mutual one that we had; We fought each other day and night: I was always wrong; he was always right. But he had the power and he needed to win; His life half over, mine about to begin. I'm not sure about that Oedipal stuff, But when we were together it was always rough. Hate is a strong word; I want to back-track; The bigger the front, then the bigger the back; The bigger the front, then the bigger the back. Now you and me are me and you, And it's a different ballgame though not brand-new. I don't know what all of this fighting is for; But we're having us a teenage/middle-age war. I don't want to die and you want to live; It takes a little bit of take and a whole lot of give. It never really ends though each race is run, This thing between a father and a son. Maybe it's power and push and shove, Maybe it's hate but probably it's love, Maybe it's hate but probably it's love. The Picture Copyright ©1992 Snowden Music Inc. There are pictures on the piano, Pictures of the family, Mostly my kids but there's an old Picture of you and me. You were five and I was six In 1952; That was forty years ago— How could it be true? We were sitting outside drawing At a table meant for cards, And it must have been in autumn, Falling leaves in the front yard, With a shoebox full of crayons, Full of colors oh so bright, In a picture in a plastic frame, A snapshot black and white. You were looking at my paper, Watching what I drew; It was natural: I was older, Thirteen months more than you. A brother and a sister, A little boy and girl, And whoever took that picture Captured our own world. A brother needs a sister To watch what he can do, To protect and to torture, To boss around—it's true; But a brother will defend her For a sister's love is pure, Because she thinks he's wonderful When he is not so sure. In the picture there's a fender Of our old Chevrolet Or Pontiac—our dad would know, Surely he could say; But dad is dead and we grow old; It's true that time flies by; And in forty years the world has changed As well as you and I. Happy Birthday, Elvis Copyright ©1993 Snowden Music Inc. Happy birthday, Elvis; You're not really dead. It's a lie, it's just a crock, Something some people said. I heard a cassette of you speaking On a telephone; From a bunker beneath Graceland, The king sits on his throne. Happy birthday, Elvis; Fifty-eight years old today. It isn't true, you didn't die, No matter what they say. The colonel just decided You should drop out of sight After the Bicentennial-- The timing was just right. (Bridge:) Happy birthday, Elvis; You're alive in '93. They took away the body, But who the hell was he? Who was that tall fat man They buried in your place? Just another imitator; Plastic surgeons did his face. Happy birthday, Elvis; You still love to ball. Somebody said she spotted you In a Memphis mall. Check out the checkout counters; Read what the tabloids say: Aliens abducted you, But somehow you got away. Happy birthday, Elvis; I for one will not shed tears. You'll be back for the millennium; That's in seven measly years. And if you're blue and lonely, Pick up that telephone, Down in that bunker beneath Graceland, The king sits on his throne. Suddenly It's Christmas Copyright ©1993 Snowden Music Inc. Suddenly it's Christmas, Right after Hallowe'en. Forget about Thanksgiving; It's just a buffet in between. There's lights and tinsel in the windows; They're stocking up the shelves; Santa's slaving at the North Pole In his sweatshop full of elves. There's got to be a build-up To the day that Christ was born: The halls are decked with pumpkins And the ears of Indian corn. Dragging through the falling leaves In a one-horse open sleigh, Suddenly it's Christmas, Seven weeks before the day. Suddenly it's Christmas, The longest holiday. When they say "Season's Greetings" They mean just what they say: It's a season, it's a marathon, Retail eternity. It's not over till it's over And you throw away the tree. Outside it's positively balmy, In the air nary a nip; Suddenly it's Christmas, Unbuttoned and unzipped. Yes, they're working overtime, Santa's little runts; Christmas comes but once a year And goes on for two months. Christmas carols in December And November, too; It's no wonder we're depressed When the whole thing is through. Finally it's January; Let's sing "Auld Lang Syne"; But here comes another heartache, Shaped like a Valentine. Suddenly it's Christmas, The longest holiday. The season is upon us; A pox, it won't go away. It's a season, it's a marathon, Retail eternity. It's not over till it's over And you throw away the tree. No, it's not over till it's over And you throw away the tree; It's still not over till it's over And you throw away the tree. Grown Man Copyright ©1995 Snowden Music You got a grown man for a boyfriend, So you better treat him just like a baby. He's a saint on Sunday, he's a bum on Monday; The rest of the week he's just crazy. He's unpredictable, like an animal, Proud as an eagle, big and strong like a bear; He's a snake and a frog, he's a pig and a dog; There's a menagerie that's living in there. You'll be his princess--forever after, yes-- If you keep acting like you're always sixteen. He is the king, ruling the kingdom's his thing; Just remember his mother is queen. Sometimes he fools around when he goes out of town But sooner or later he's bound to get caught. He loves coming home, but then he has to roam; Mr. Ambivalence is the guy that you've got. He's got some problems--no, you can't solve them-- He's got some goblins he can't exorcise. Mostly he wants to cry, he's afraid to die, But he's living life like it's a booby prize. He wishes he were young, a little better hung, And he's paranoid you feel that way too; So reassure him, you'll never cure him, But he still needs his daily dose of you. You got a grown man for a boyfriend, So you better treat him just like a baby. Yeah, he's a saint on Sunday, he's a bum on Monday; The rest of the week... He's asleep on Sunday, he's a beast on Monday; Rest of the week... He's blue on Sunday, and he's manic on Monday; Rest of the week he's just crazy. Our Own War Copyright ©1997 Snowden Music Hostilities ended, nobody cared Anymore for the war, so a truce was declared. So it ends in surrender, then there's peace at least; Arms are withdrawn and fire is ceased. To stay in a skirmish one needs appetite; Two need desire to keep up a fight; But when appetite's off and desire is gone, Then the fire is held and arms are withdrawn. (Chorus:) When losses and wounds are grievous and gory, When the battle is pitched, in the field there is glory, When hearts just aren't in it, retreat leads to rout And arms are laid down and the fire goes out. We remember the ones who run out of dumb luck; Monuments are erected and statues are struck; But we tend to forget if and when we forgive, And the survivors survive but they never quite live. As for our own war, yes, I recall it well, Just what it was like our own personal hell. I've forgotten the good times--heaven's so vague-- But I remember the battles. Oh, how they raged! (Repeat chorus)