LYRICS
Down on Route 9A (c) 2017
This is one of the few songs I've written in which the main character really exists. You can find him on Route 9A in Elmsford, New York, right by the off-ramp from Route 287. He's outside a gas station, not a tire store as the song claims. He's twenty feet tall and was built by International Fiberglass, probably in the 1960s. There's a little more information about him on a website called Roadside Architecture (http://www.roadarch.com/giants/ifbunyans3.html).
There's a big old statue of a lumberjack
Down on Route 9A.
20 feet tall, and he's got no arms
But he's always smiling anyway.
49 years he's standing there
Every night and day.
Whatcha gonna do, Mr. No-arms-man
If a giant cowgirl steals your heart away?
How you gonna hold her close, my friend?
How you gonna hold her chair?
How you gonna cop a feel, big fella?
How you gonna stroke her hair?
How you gonna ease her aching heart, wipe her tears away?
How you gonna take her dancing, son, down on Route 9A?
He stands outside a tire store.
There's a kid down by his feet.
Waiting for a bus with a girl on board -
She's way too tall, but awful sweet.
Not a date, or anything.
Just hanging out for the day.
Don't look now, Mr. Short-pants boy
But a giant cowgirl stole your heart away.
Don't you want to hold her hand, my friend?
Don't you want to to touch her hair?
Don't know much about copping feels,
Don't know much about holding chairs.
Don't know much about anything.
Don't have much to say.
How you gonna take her dancing, son,
Down on Route 9A?
I think his arms are really there, they're just invisible
Only way to see them is to see what they can do.
They can reach me way across the city.
Make me feel like a tough guy with a smile
Take that boy and straighten out his shoulders
Make him feel like a man for a while
They can catch a dancing cowgirl by her dainty giant hand
Lead her to a quiet corner of the dance hall
Wrap her fiberglass waist in their invisible embrace
Maybe cop that feel after all.
The boy looks up at the lumberjack
And the lumberjack stares him down.
The girl could get there any time
And the boy feels like rodeo clown.
He knows he has to to talk to her,
But he can't think where to start.
Then he feels a giant hand reach out
And he hears a deep voice rumble in his heart.
“Yes, you are a knucklehead.
But smart and funny and kind.
Just relax and be yourself -
That's the guy she wants to find.
All the rest, forget about.
Let her lead the way.
Then you can take her dancing, son,
Down on Route 9A.”
I think his arms are really there, but they're invisible.
Only way to see them is to see what they can do.
They can reach me way across the decades.
Make me feel like a kid without a clue.
Back before he understood what an awful lot of good
A talk with a lumberjack can do.
Make me catch my favorite cowgirl by her sweet familiar hand
Lead her to a quiet corner of the dance floor.
Make me whisper in her ear, “Hey, let's get on out of here,
Take a walk down by the tire store.”
There's a big old statue of a lumberjack
Down on Route 9A
Not as tall as he used to be
Doesn't have a lot to say.
49 years he's waiting there
Stuck by the side of the road.
Lonely days, my no-arm-friend,
I guess that giant cowgirl never showed.
I go down to visit with him
Every now and then.
Pair of former knuckleheads,
Pair of former ladies' men.
Guys who fall in love with girls who
Dance the night away.
Waiting for a city bus
Down on Route 9A.
Down on Route 9A, boys, down on Route 9A.
Waiting for a city bus
Down on Route 9A.
This is one of the few songs I've written in which the main character really exists. You can find him on Route 9A in Elmsford, New York, right by the off-ramp from Route 287. He's outside a gas station, not a tire store as the song claims. He's twenty feet tall and was built by International Fiberglass, probably in the 1960s. There's a little more information about him on a website called Roadside Architecture (http://www.roadarch.com/giants/ifbunyans3.html).
There's a big old statue of a lumberjack
Down on Route 9A.
20 feet tall, and he's got no arms
But he's always smiling anyway.
49 years he's standing there
Every night and day.
Whatcha gonna do, Mr. No-arms-man
If a giant cowgirl steals your heart away?
How you gonna hold her close, my friend?
How you gonna hold her chair?
How you gonna cop a feel, big fella?
How you gonna stroke her hair?
How you gonna ease her aching heart, wipe her tears away?
How you gonna take her dancing, son, down on Route 9A?
He stands outside a tire store.
There's a kid down by his feet.
Waiting for a bus with a girl on board -
She's way too tall, but awful sweet.
Not a date, or anything.
Just hanging out for the day.
Don't look now, Mr. Short-pants boy
But a giant cowgirl stole your heart away.
Don't you want to hold her hand, my friend?
Don't you want to to touch her hair?
Don't know much about copping feels,
Don't know much about holding chairs.
Don't know much about anything.
Don't have much to say.
How you gonna take her dancing, son,
Down on Route 9A?
I think his arms are really there, they're just invisible
Only way to see them is to see what they can do.
They can reach me way across the city.
Make me feel like a tough guy with a smile
Take that boy and straighten out his shoulders
Make him feel like a man for a while
They can catch a dancing cowgirl by her dainty giant hand
Lead her to a quiet corner of the dance hall
Wrap her fiberglass waist in their invisible embrace
Maybe cop that feel after all.
The boy looks up at the lumberjack
And the lumberjack stares him down.
The girl could get there any time
And the boy feels like rodeo clown.
He knows he has to to talk to her,
But he can't think where to start.
Then he feels a giant hand reach out
And he hears a deep voice rumble in his heart.
“Yes, you are a knucklehead.
But smart and funny and kind.
Just relax and be yourself -
That's the guy she wants to find.
All the rest, forget about.
Let her lead the way.
Then you can take her dancing, son,
Down on Route 9A.”
I think his arms are really there, but they're invisible.
Only way to see them is to see what they can do.
They can reach me way across the decades.
Make me feel like a kid without a clue.
Back before he understood what an awful lot of good
A talk with a lumberjack can do.
Make me catch my favorite cowgirl by her sweet familiar hand
Lead her to a quiet corner of the dance floor.
Make me whisper in her ear, “Hey, let's get on out of here,
Take a walk down by the tire store.”
There's a big old statue of a lumberjack
Down on Route 9A
Not as tall as he used to be
Doesn't have a lot to say.
49 years he's waiting there
Stuck by the side of the road.
Lonely days, my no-arm-friend,
I guess that giant cowgirl never showed.
I go down to visit with him
Every now and then.
Pair of former knuckleheads,
Pair of former ladies' men.
Guys who fall in love with girls who
Dance the night away.
Waiting for a city bus
Down on Route 9A.
Down on Route 9A, boys, down on Route 9A.
Waiting for a city bus
Down on Route 9A.
Granddad
Not a true story. I never knew either of my grandfathers, but I'm pretty sure if
either of them had been anything like this guy I would have heard about it. This
song started with the first two lines; I had no idea where it would go after that. It
took about a year for everything to fall into place. For a while, the second verse
used Sandy Koufax instead of Perry Mason; I changed it because I didn't think most
people would recognize the name. I sang it in a church once, and felt obliged to
apologize in advance for the language at the end. Nobody seemed to mind.
My parents - my real parents, not the characters in the song - are buried at
Arlington. My father had a military funeral, which is a stunning thing to witness.
Granddad - Tom Heany (c) 2016
One winter my granddad moved in with us.
I guess he was in between jails.
As old as the bank in the middle of town, and
Soft as a sack of nails.
He'd sit and drink beer in the living room
Rant about taxes and war.
He'd curse and he'd yell and he'd drink and complain,
And pound his cane on the floor.
Then he'd stop and say “God Bless America,”
Then he'd drink and he'd yell some more.
He ground us all down by Memorial Day
When Mama made Dad throw him out.
I asked, as he packed up his duffle bag,
What all of the noise was about.
He gathered himself for a minute
As Perry Mason might do
He said “How many people are there in this world
Who would give up their lives for you?”
I thought as hard as a 10 year old can
But I only came up with two.
Somehow he got us an automobile
And we drove through the Maryland sun
We passed through Bethesda at twelve fifteen,
And crossed the Potomac at one.
We ended our journey at Arlington
Where Robert E Lee used to stand
And the national graveyard is up on a hill
Watching over George Washington's land.
I'd never seen so many tombstones,
So I took my grandfather's hand.
We saw soldiers with guns and one with a bugle
and a family lost in pain
A folded flag in a young woman's arms -
you could tell she would never be the same.
Granddad said, “There are 400,000 here, row after row after row.
Each of them willing to die for a 10 year old boy they will never even know.
He said, “War is the stupidest thing in the world and it
Sometimes has to be done.
When all the bodies come home at the end
You can't always tell who's won.
You asked about all of the yelling.
You're wondering about all the beer.
I'm nearing the end of a long hard life
And my friends are all in here.”
He climbed to the seat of a little stone bench
and he smoothed his ragged gray hair.
He turned to his brothers and sisters in arms
Like he had invited them there.
Then he gathered himself, and opened his lungs
And blistered the sanctified air.
Chorus
I won't pay for the president's limousine
Or the goddamn vice president's beer
When I pay my taxes on April 15
Every goddamn penny goes here.
You could boil the congress in oil
And the whole blessed country would cheer
I do what I want with the taxes I pay
But all of my money goes here.
That was a really long time ago.
The old guy eventually passed.
He's there with his buddies in Arlington.
Thank God he's quiet at last.
I visit him every Memorial Day,
And I take my whole family there.
We gather ourselves by his tombstone
And look like a family in prayer.
Then like one legged soldiers with beer in our bellies
We blister the sanctified air.
Chorus
I won't pay for the president's limousine
Or the goddamn vice president's beer
When I pay my taxes on April 15
Every goddamn penny goes here.
The Democrats and the Republicans
They lie to us year after year – I say
Screw them all, down to the last sorry bastard
Ignorant self-absorbed criminal blowhards
Life in a cesspool would be too damn good for them
But I'm going to stop now before I get angry
And pay my respects to the man and his comrades
With expletives, outrage and beer
I do what I want with the taxes I pay,
And all of my money goes here.
Every sacred penny goes here
All of my money goes here.
Not a true story. I never knew either of my grandfathers, but I'm pretty sure if
either of them had been anything like this guy I would have heard about it. This
song started with the first two lines; I had no idea where it would go after that. It
took about a year for everything to fall into place. For a while, the second verse
used Sandy Koufax instead of Perry Mason; I changed it because I didn't think most
people would recognize the name. I sang it in a church once, and felt obliged to
apologize in advance for the language at the end. Nobody seemed to mind.
My parents - my real parents, not the characters in the song - are buried at
Arlington. My father had a military funeral, which is a stunning thing to witness.
Granddad - Tom Heany (c) 2016
One winter my granddad moved in with us.
I guess he was in between jails.
As old as the bank in the middle of town, and
Soft as a sack of nails.
He'd sit and drink beer in the living room
Rant about taxes and war.
He'd curse and he'd yell and he'd drink and complain,
And pound his cane on the floor.
Then he'd stop and say “God Bless America,”
Then he'd drink and he'd yell some more.
He ground us all down by Memorial Day
When Mama made Dad throw him out.
I asked, as he packed up his duffle bag,
What all of the noise was about.
He gathered himself for a minute
As Perry Mason might do
He said “How many people are there in this world
Who would give up their lives for you?”
I thought as hard as a 10 year old can
But I only came up with two.
Somehow he got us an automobile
And we drove through the Maryland sun
We passed through Bethesda at twelve fifteen,
And crossed the Potomac at one.
We ended our journey at Arlington
Where Robert E Lee used to stand
And the national graveyard is up on a hill
Watching over George Washington's land.
I'd never seen so many tombstones,
So I took my grandfather's hand.
We saw soldiers with guns and one with a bugle
and a family lost in pain
A folded flag in a young woman's arms -
you could tell she would never be the same.
Granddad said, “There are 400,000 here, row after row after row.
Each of them willing to die for a 10 year old boy they will never even know.
He said, “War is the stupidest thing in the world and it
Sometimes has to be done.
When all the bodies come home at the end
You can't always tell who's won.
You asked about all of the yelling.
You're wondering about all the beer.
I'm nearing the end of a long hard life
And my friends are all in here.”
He climbed to the seat of a little stone bench
and he smoothed his ragged gray hair.
He turned to his brothers and sisters in arms
Like he had invited them there.
Then he gathered himself, and opened his lungs
And blistered the sanctified air.
Chorus
I won't pay for the president's limousine
Or the goddamn vice president's beer
When I pay my taxes on April 15
Every goddamn penny goes here.
You could boil the congress in oil
And the whole blessed country would cheer
I do what I want with the taxes I pay
But all of my money goes here.
That was a really long time ago.
The old guy eventually passed.
He's there with his buddies in Arlington.
Thank God he's quiet at last.
I visit him every Memorial Day,
And I take my whole family there.
We gather ourselves by his tombstone
And look like a family in prayer.
Then like one legged soldiers with beer in our bellies
We blister the sanctified air.
Chorus
I won't pay for the president's limousine
Or the goddamn vice president's beer
When I pay my taxes on April 15
Every goddamn penny goes here.
The Democrats and the Republicans
They lie to us year after year – I say
Screw them all, down to the last sorry bastard
Ignorant self-absorbed criminal blowhards
Life in a cesspool would be too damn good for them
But I'm going to stop now before I get angry
And pay my respects to the man and his comrades
With expletives, outrage and beer
I do what I want with the taxes I pay,
And all of my money goes here.
Every sacred penny goes here
All of my money goes here.