Lyrics: Tennessee Tango Whiskey

The Tennesse boy's shoes don't tie right.
His shirt don't tuck with them jeans so tight.
Pockets of dust, and an empty mouth, but that shit don't matter it's a Saturday night, Alright.
Out on Alsup Road...sip on Lightning Joe.

Here waits Sam with her rolled red hair.
On Highway 61, thumb in the air.
Her lips are drawl. Her legs are lean. In fifteen hours she'll be in New Orleans, Nawlins.
Up on Royal Street. Sam at Mr. B's.

The boy is skinny, but his voice is deep.
His beard won't grow out on his cheeks.
Half a cigarette hangs by his teeth.
Vulgar tones a mane of grease.

Here comes the love of the redhead child.
His eyes are locked on her frame of wire.
Shimmying down Canal and Camp, to the rhythm of the steps of the one he desires.
He's light and wild.
She's fair stone mild. Sam at Mr. B's.

The love can't find Sam at Mr. B's.
He turns west 14 blocks, Bourbon Street.
Spots her frame and stops to breathe.
Takes her hand, she sighs relief.

There goes Sam and her rolled redhair.
Struttin' hot coals. Nose in the air.
Her style is cloudy, but skirt is clean. And for this city that's enough to be crowned queen.

Stream "Poisoning The Medicine Tree" @ Bandcamp.com

"Poisoning The Medicine Tree" long play by W.A. Fite, 12 song streaming available @ http://wafite.bandcamp.com .

My Hand The Handle

I was afraid to open the door. Afraid of the handle and of the turn.
I was afraid to open the door. Afraid of what I knew I would learn.

Looked at the handle, looked at my hand. Noticed it's paint chips, noticed it's slant.

I was afraid to open the door. Thinking it's stance was maligned, but true.
I was afraid to open the door. Thinking I'd stumble, slip right through.

Reached for the handle, gave it a turn.
It's bolt clicked at going and finally I knew...

As I stood looking through that open door, the nothing I saw was simply the floor.

Lyrics: Sergeant F. Head

Sergeant Head walks his line to view his prisoners; smell their crimes. His stick goes click from side-to-side, his lips smacked hard, his teeth clenched wide.

He picks the ones who live or die. He picks the ones who make him smile. The whince and beg is what he'll claim, the pride in which keep him sustained. He's riding high up on the wind. That Sergeant Head's old dirty grin.

Sergeant Head walks his line to view the women in their prime. His stick goes click from side-to-side, his tongue wagged hard, his teeth sneered wide.

He picks the girls to be his bride. He picks the ones who like to cry. The whince and beg is what he'll claim, the pride in which keep him sustained. He's riding high up on the wind. That Sergeant Head's old dirty grin.

One day he woke up from his sleep to see a new line forming deep. He combed his mane and wiped his eyes and stepped outside to greet the line...

"Move aside and take him from my line. Move aside and take her from my line."
That's the sign, to take a wife.

"Move along and take him from my line. Move along and take her from my line."
That's the sign, to take a life.

"What's her name? Please take her from my line. What's her name? I'll put her by my side."
Now's the time to beg with tears.
I'd say, "Pause. Take a breath try again from here."

"Oh, just take him from my line. What a wreck. I'll put him on this line."
Now's the time to say a prayer.
I'd say, "Stop. Hold your breath try again from here."

"Oh, where's that pretty little one? Such a tease...always crying on my feet."
I'd say, "Stop. Hold your breath, count it back from ten."
She'd say, "Please...OH NO, no no no no no!!!"

That's the sign, to take a life.

Oil Machine

I am an oil machine of gears and clogs, parts that don't match. Gears that won't turn, clamps that won't latch. Grease and steam whistling.

Tired and alone. Made by steel, not stone.

I am a tattooed old piece with words that bend to odd to read. Cars that don't match. A crime at the scene. Grease and steam whistling.

Tired and alone. Made by steel, not stone.

No more lines. No sunsets behind. Just oil and rust. Tired and alone.

Lyrics: Large Lights

The more I stay awake. The farther It gets away.
If I stay up too long, this memory will be gone.

It is dark when I wake. It is dark when I get home.

Big huge large lights, that say I've been lost.
That's a lie. I chose this spot. This spot is mine.

Where have you gone? I can't be left alone this long.
It is dark when I wake. It is dark when I get home.

Lyrics: The Piddler

Why did you let me down, standing out at the Fairfield Line?
I've tried to rest in this deafening sound, the sky meets the ground.

Slow, slow, so slow.
Did the clock wind out as the room went cold?
My suit has torn a hole.
And your dress has split where it can't be sewed.

Why did you have me wait? My feet went push till the floor went split.
I stared through the screen and latch, and through the roof peering near the thatch.

Slow, slow, so slow.
Did the clock wind out as the room went cold?
My suit has torn a hole.
And your dress has split where it can't be sewed.

Why did it take so long for you to say, "Hey, I've met someone"?
I sure as hell would've left this town and it's sparse lit clouds.

ZOO Creature

At the ZOO I scavenged for an impression of anything other than the backside of a macaw. Every animal dismissed me at it's leisure, with a recklessness only a caged creature could afford.

Were the large faux rocks and electrified fence tops protecting me or them? Both surfaces lend themselves to fear through conditioning; the rocks with their slip slide slopes and the electricity with it's whirling pulse. Wild is only wild if it acts as such, and these beasts were not much for acting; rather sleeping, picking, or eating.

Only one time was an impression of force made upon me as an elephant recounted his displeasure at the lack of clean dirt beneath his feet. His blast was so deafening that the ground rumbled as the bark shook free of it's parent. It was in that moment where I truly realized the presence of power.

Lyrics: A Work In Progress

All my people think I'm simple.
Drink the coffee, read the paper.
Hear the band, the tunes they're flailing.
Sit for hours, just to play it out.

Who's in? Who's next?
A Work In Progress.

Will the waitress wave to greet me,
Or the doctor nod to see me?
Will my parent's come to meet me?
Drive four hours, just to call me son.

You've been a selfish child.
A Man In Progress.

The role is call. The bell's been ringing.
Kids at tables, blinking, dreaming...
Eyes adrift, with mouth's wide open.
Wait for hours, just to go outside.

To scream and skip.
The Boys in Collared Blue.
Inflamed, in bloom.
Their mind's consumed,
With frogs and glue.

The music's blaring. The women staring.
Nice to see you, how entertaining,
Of a notion that I am pleasing.
Conversations with no meaning...clung.

To youth and guile.
A Work In Progress.

Lyrics: Breathing At The Door

Breathing at the door. When will you let me out? I've scratched and I have kicked, and I've quieted my mouth.
Breathing at the door. What a selfish place to stay. Locked in one place, god these people have no taste.

You're awake! I hear it. You're awake! I know it.
I hear you tossing. I feel you turning. Creep your feet out, put them right down, let me out now, open up the door.

Breathing at the door. Why must I beg to move? I've took all I should, give me another room.
Breathing at the door. When will you let me out? I've scratched and I've kicked, and I've quieted my mouth.