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Odds And Ends And Anything You Fancy
- Thread starter Eulalia
- Start date
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
A different musical note:
On May 24, 1963, Bob Dylan turned 22 years old.
Nineteen days later, on June 12, 1963, just past midnight, Medgar Evers, Mississippi Field Secretary for the NAACP drove up to his Jackson home, parking under the carport. As Evers got out of his car, he grabbed a bundle of T-shirts that were to be handed out the next morning to civil rights demonstrators. He only took a few steps away from his car toward the kitchen door when he was shot in the back. The bullet tore through his body and went into the house where his wife Myrlie and their three children were.
Twenty-Four days later, on July 6, 1963, Dylan performed the song, “Only a Pawn in Their Game”, at a voter registration rally in the yard of a Negro farm home on the edge of a cotton patch three miles south of Greenwood, MS.
It is hard to conceive that such a young man, living in Greenwich Village, could produce such a piece of poetry and such perceptive political and cultural analysis in less than three weeks.
He performed the song at the March on Washington, August 28th, where Martin Luther King delivered his “I Have a Dream” speech.
Incredible times!
A bullet from the back of a bush
Took Medgar Evers' blood
A finger fired the trigger to his name
A handle hid out in the dark
A hand set the spark
Two eyes took the aim
Behind a man's brain
But he can't be blamed
He's only a pawn in their game
A South politician preaches to the poor white man
"You got more than the blacks, don't complain
You're better than them, you been born with white skin, " they explain
And the Negro's name
Is used, it is plain
For the politician's gain
As he rises to fame
And the poor white remains
On the caboose of the train
But it ain't him to blame
He's only a pawn in their game
The deputy sheriffs, the soldiers, the governors get paid
And the marshals and cops get the same
But the poor white man's used in the hands of them all like a tool
He's taught in his school
From the start by the rule
That the laws are with him
To protect his white skin
To keep up his hate
So he never thinks straight
'Bout the shape that he's in
But it ain't him to blame
He's only a pawn in their game
From the poverty shacks, he looks from the cracks to the tracks
And the hoofbeats pound in his brain
And he's taught how to walk in a pack
Shoot in the back
With his fist in a clinch
To hang and to lynch
To hide 'neath the hood
To kill with no pain
Like a dog on a chain
He ain't got no name
But it ain't him to blame
He's only a pawn in their game
Today, Medgar Evers was buried from the bullet he caught
They lowered him down as a king
But when the shadowy sun sets on the one
That fired the gun
He'll see by his grave
On the stone that remains
Carved next to his name
His epitaph plain
Only a pawn in their game
On May 24, 1963, Bob Dylan turned 22 years old.
Nineteen days later, on June 12, 1963, just past midnight, Medgar Evers, Mississippi Field Secretary for the NAACP drove up to his Jackson home, parking under the carport. As Evers got out of his car, he grabbed a bundle of T-shirts that were to be handed out the next morning to civil rights demonstrators. He only took a few steps away from his car toward the kitchen door when he was shot in the back. The bullet tore through his body and went into the house where his wife Myrlie and their three children were.
Twenty-Four days later, on July 6, 1963, Dylan performed the song, “Only a Pawn in Their Game”, at a voter registration rally in the yard of a Negro farm home on the edge of a cotton patch three miles south of Greenwood, MS.
It is hard to conceive that such a young man, living in Greenwich Village, could produce such a piece of poetry and such perceptive political and cultural analysis in less than three weeks.
He performed the song at the March on Washington, August 28th, where Martin Luther King delivered his “I Have a Dream” speech.
Incredible times!
A bullet from the back of a bush
Took Medgar Evers' blood
A finger fired the trigger to his name
A handle hid out in the dark
A hand set the spark
Two eyes took the aim
Behind a man's brain
But he can't be blamed
He's only a pawn in their game
A South politician preaches to the poor white man
"You got more than the blacks, don't complain
You're better than them, you been born with white skin, " they explain
And the Negro's name
Is used, it is plain
For the politician's gain
As he rises to fame
And the poor white remains
On the caboose of the train
But it ain't him to blame
He's only a pawn in their game
The deputy sheriffs, the soldiers, the governors get paid
And the marshals and cops get the same
But the poor white man's used in the hands of them all like a tool
He's taught in his school
From the start by the rule
That the laws are with him
To protect his white skin
To keep up his hate
So he never thinks straight
'Bout the shape that he's in
But it ain't him to blame
He's only a pawn in their game
From the poverty shacks, he looks from the cracks to the tracks
And the hoofbeats pound in his brain
And he's taught how to walk in a pack
Shoot in the back
With his fist in a clinch
To hang and to lynch
To hide 'neath the hood
To kill with no pain
Like a dog on a chain
He ain't got no name
But it ain't him to blame
He's only a pawn in their game
Today, Medgar Evers was buried from the bullet he caught
They lowered him down as a king
But when the shadowy sun sets on the one
That fired the gun
He'll see by his grave
On the stone that remains
Carved next to his name
His epitaph plain
Only a pawn in their game
fallenmystic
Tribune
It was Bob Dylan who almost persuaded of the existence of Muse, whom the ancient believed to visit artists to bless them with a spark of divine inspiration, only to abandon them at the height of their fame that ensues. And I got reminded me of the fact that all musicians were bards and poets at one time, telling a story or revealing some of the divine secrets to us, whenever I watch Bob Dylan sings.
It's hard not to suspect if it were the Muses themselves singing through his mouth when I watch some of his earlier (and more popular, probably) works like this:
And it makes me question if people have all forgotten that music isn't all about hitting the highest notes, or getting that perfect vibrato. Maybe it has become even worse since, as it seems to be all about creating eye-catching music videos with sexy-looking girls nowadays.
Not that I don't believe such a type of entertainment has its own place. But it's not what music is all about, and where can I find an equivalent of Bob Dylan for today?
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A few odds and ends...
My European friends seem to have a much more thorough knowledge of weaponry than I do and I consider myself pretty well versed in such honors but I must admit the F-35 train left me speechless. Of course where I live the odds on seeing one fly is nearly ZERO!!!
New story coming together. I'll start posting in a day or two
My European friends seem to have a much more thorough knowledge of weaponry than I do and I consider myself pretty well versed in such honors but I must admit the F-35 train left me speechless. Of course where I live the odds on seeing one fly is nearly ZERO!!!
New story coming together. I'll start posting in a day or two
Gibbs505
SERVORUM DOMITOR
Good to see you Tree and Ilook forward to the story!
I'm ready to write!!!
Gibbs505
SERVORUM DOMITOR
Something better!
Attachments
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Corporal punishments are administered at the offender's home now?
Crux-Emperor Baracus X
Rectidolor
Something for everyone.... 
M
montycrusto
Guest
Normal day in the CF coffee shop..
fallenmystic
Tribune
I suppose he would've been nailed to the wall, in that case, instead of just thrown against it... with other customers discussing what loincloth to put on him after he's stripped and whipped properlyNormal day in the CF coffee shop..
M
montycrusto
Guest
I rather like the idea of @Eulalia having a telekinetic psychotic episode in the middle of the cafe, although in her case we would end up with more books on the shelves, not fewerI suppose he would've been nailed to the wall, in that case, instead of just thrown against it... with other customers discussing what loincloth to put on him after he's stripped and whipped properly
M
montycrusto
Guest
I do wonder, though, how many of those witnesses left the cafe thinking it was all real. -and devoted the rest of their lives to persuading others that supernatural powers exist 
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Hangover squirrel?oho squirrel not like mondays meow
Gibbs505
SERVORUM DOMITOR
Noe thats a thought!I do wonder, though, how many of those witnesses left the cafe thinking it was all real. -and devoted the rest of their lives to persuading others that supernatural powers exist
M
montycrusto
Guest
Imagine telling everyone who will listen (and quite a few who won’t), about your awesome eye-witness experience of psychic powers.. and then years later, by chance coming across this video.. thinking, oh shit.. I recognise that café..
