From the recording Songs From The Holiday, Vol. 1

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Songwriter Prison

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David Cox


I was in songwriter prison, I was sentenced last week
For singing in a place where they only let you speak
The judge was not amused when I sang in my defense
The reporter got confused because the lyrics made no sense
But I just kept on singing through my plastic pocket comb
As long as I have music, I will always have a home

I was in songwriter prison with a guard right by the door
He played the ukulele ‘til his fingers got too sore
Then he grabbed the bongos with tape around his thumbs
And beat them ‘til they swelled into a pair of conga drums
He forgot what he was doing, his responsibility
That’s when I maneuvered out the window and broke free

I ran into the bushes and out across the street
I ducked into an alley to escape the trailing heat
Alarms were ringing loudly and sirens filled the air
I could feel their sense of urgency in panic and despair
A helicopter hovered up above me where I hid
A garbage can betrayed me, I forgot to close the lid

I’m back in songwriter prison, and now I’m in the hole
They let me out to exercise my body and my soul
And when the hour is over, they lock me in the dark
And let me think it over, how I bolted through the park
I thank pat mAcd wherever I may roam
As long as I have music, I will always have a home