the croon of sam cooke
goes down like lemonade
on a hot august evening-
bitter, but with lots of sugar.
and the livin' was never easy
in the last picture i saw,
commanding that stage at the copa
a ribbon of smoke
enveloping his frame,
in the last picture i saw
making all those sad eyed women
so glad that they came
(or at least feeling like they should)
from the suburbs or shanty towns
it's a mean old world
that we're still livin' in.
now, the croon of sam cooke
is missing from my turntable
that spins like a pvc dervish,
another saturday night
in summertime, and i still
don't know nothing 'bout history.
