Hell-cat Maggie and Butcher Bill -
have a little blood to spill?
Broken English and Irish brogues,
'twas a gallery of rogues.
Tammany Hall and Boss Tweed,
votes all but guaranteed.
Murder, riot, mayhem, and scandals,
looters, prostitutes, and vandals.
Jenny's pendant and flowing hair,
bodies hanging in the square -
the Bowery Boys and the Dead Rabbits roam
in the place where I call home.
Ever since I was a youngster, I loved my comedy shows
So, I've wrote about some comedy that most everybody knows
Remember watching "The Honeymooners" late at night tucked in your bed
Remember watching "The Flintstones" with Barney, Dino and Fred
Remember Soupy Sales, Red Buttons and Benny Hill
And don't forget about Mr. Rogers, and good old Mr. Bill
Remember Laurel and Hardy and remember Charlie Chan
And remember all the "Bowery Boys" and the "Little Rascals" clan
Remember all the "Munsters" and the "Addams Family" too
And remember watching "Tom & Jerry" and the classic "Scooby-Doo"
Remember all those comedy shows, I really loved them all
But still my favorite is "I Love Lucy" starring- Lucille Ball
Joe Schmidt grew up the Eastern Bowery
His upbringing was less than flowery
He robbed a few banks
And a few more pranks
After which his whole life turned out sourly.
You don’t wanna meet Joey Fatone
He’s a Jersey Devil
with a Tasmanian attitude
Street whispers say,
“Baby” is a notch below
asylum certifiable
A wise guy, gator gait bad to the bone
Known to go postal ... jungle level
Joey loves giving dirt naps,
so don’t keep the short talk too long
Lives Cajun mean dirty down low in the Big Easy,
made Papa Justify give him the Skeleton Key
Stay behind the yellow line ... don’t cross the “Baby”
Always traveled light: Ruby and a burner phone
The Devil adored his metallic Black widow
Mixing business with pleasure was money fun to do
Fatone’s fist: shook rattle them numbered bones;
what you didn’t say, he never wanted to know
Best hit man for hire ... won’t pay the cleaner bill too
You don’t wanna meet Bobby Falcone
He’s a Bowery Hell’s Angel
with a Transylvanian diablo attitude ...
Sing Kumbaya around the fire; don’t look around
As beneath the baptismal waters the black sheep drown
Cold currents under the surface pull their breath down
Lullabies of praise snuff their cries as flickering flames of lives
Drown in the wax spilled from the wicks of the sacred candles you keep alive
Nothing left but the white smoke that veils our views and cares
Pure white smoke to lighten the dark we share
You choke on your collar but I’m the one who can’t speak. You stare
As I gasp and try to holler, but don’t even seem to breathe your pure air
You say everything happens for a reason, and I want so much to reply,
“The reason is you’re a bunch of complacent jerks, and without the gospel, your bowery of a church couldn’t attract one fly!”
You might say me a prayer, some sacred line
But if I wanted one, I can pray for myself just fine
If only I had a voice, I would tell the church that there are few things more cruel
Than a world where everyone believes in angels, but nobody believes in you.
If our springs are uncertain we enjoy fine sunny days
A feeling for spring, even when bad, is always good
Such is the opening of April, not winter nor summer
It is spring fickle and chilly a spring of dear England
In spite of the cold, green steals along our hedgerows
All along river banks and flourish in the bowery lanes
Little daisies, thinly sprinkled, bow to us in friendship
Make our gardens flame with tints of far away places
Take a walk on bare turf over wind swept meadows
The coltsfoot shows yellow flowers on barren lands
Blue and white violets sit in their established places
A cardamine smiles wide from a moist green ditch
Primroses in their loveliness are punctual as daylight
In spots where they have appeared as long ago as time
Anemonies dance in breezes as they wave sweet waves
A season for love or tortured hearts, of sadness or joy
A beggar clump adorns a dump, his pencil box in hand -
With sightless eyes upon the skies he’s lying there unmanned.
He’s fallen down in Shantytown, his knees too weak to stand,
With no relief and bitter grief too dark to understand.
The Bowery blight is hid from sight, it’s covered up and bland,
And Robin Hood and Brother Hood lie buried in the sand.
No more water hosing or truncheons beaten on bare feet,
no nightsticks cracking skulls on Bowery streets.
No cold water straitjackets or rubber padded rooms,
no laudanum doses sweeping minds like a broom.
Now its pretentious centers deluxe
brazenly charging big bucks
for twenty-eight days of schmoozing
to turn off the boozing,
and swallowing mega-vitamin pills
to ward off the chills,
or sit in circles with stories to tell
from like-minded survivors of hell.
More humane we're trying to be
even offering treatment for free
but it is still a choice at any cost.
To choose a sober life or, to an early death be lost.
315 Bowery
Cavern dark
Steep stairways
Rebel yell
Graffiti walls,
Landmark underground
Outcast mall.
Cradle of Punk
Sweet rock n roll
Loud lullabies,
Awakening calls.
Talking Heads
Blondie
The Ramones beat,
Historic toilet rooms
Flush no more.
An era gone
Silent sleep
My CBGB days
Hilly Kristal,
You may keep.
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