…but I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die

Merry outlaw Christmas to everyone

Steve Earle - Christmas in Washington (live)

So come back Woody Guthrie
Come back to us now
Tear your eyes from paradise
And rise again somehow
If you run into Jesus
Maybe he can help you out
Come back Woody Guthrie to us now

Guy Clark - Dublin Blues

Forgive me all my anger
Forgive me all my faults
There’s no need to forgive me
For thinkin’ what I thought

Happy Bob Dylan 70th birthday!
Talking about Bob thru other songwriters’ words:

David Allan Coe - Willie, Waylon and me (live)

I’d heard The Burritos out in California
could fly higher than The Byrds
Roger McGuinn had a 12 string guitar.
It was like nothing I’d ever heard
And The Eagles flew in from the west coast
Like The Byrds they were trying to be free
While in Texas the talk turned to Outlaws
Like Willie and Waylon and me.

Hey!
Well they say Texas music is in the make
And we’ve been making music that is free
Doing one night stands and playing with our bands
Willie, Waylon and me

Oh Mad Dog!

They say The Beatles were just the beginning
of everything music could be
Just like The Stones I was rolling along
Like a ship lost out on the sea
And Joplin would die for the future
And Dylan would write poetry
And in Texas the talk turned to Outlaws
Like Willie and Waylon and me

Hey!
My name is David Allen Coe and I’m from Dallas Texas.
They say Texas music is in the make
And we’ve been making music that is free
Doing one night stands and playing with our bands
Willie, Waylon and me

Big Jim!

I’d heard The Burritos out in California
could fly higher than The Byrds
Roger McGuinn had a 12 string guitar.
It was like nothing I’d ever heard
And The Eagles flew in from the west coast
Like The Byrds they were trying to be free
While in Texas the talk turned to Outlaws
Like Willie and Waylon and me.

David Allan Coe - You never even call me by my name (live 2002)

“…Well a friend of mine named Steve Goodman wrote that song
And he told me it was the perfect country and western song
I wrote him back a letter and told him
It was not the percfect country and western song
Because he hadn’t said anything at all about mama
Or trains or trucks or prison or gettin’ drunk
Well he sat down and wrote another verse to the song and he sent it to me
And after reading it I realized
That my friend had written the perfect country and western song
And I felt obliged to include it on this album the last verse goes like this here:

Well I was drunk the day my mom got out of prison
And I went to pick her up in the rain
But before I could get to the station in a pickup truck
She got run’d over by a damned old train…”

Kris Kristofferson - Sunday morning coming down

Well I woke up Sunday morning,
With no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled through my closet for my clothes,
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
An’ I shaved my face and combed my hair,
An’ stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.

I’d smoked my brain the night before,
On cigarettes and songs I’d been pickin’.
But I lit my first and watched a small kid,
Cussin’ at a can that he was kicking.
Then I crossed the empty street,
‘n caught the Sunday smell of someone fryin’ chicken.
And it took me back to somethin’,
That I’d lost somehow, somewhere along the way.

On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
‘Cos there’s something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there’s nothin’ short of dyin’,
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin’ city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin’ comin’ down.

In the park I saw a daddy,
With a laughin’ little girl who he was swingin’.
And I stopped beside a Sunday school,
And listened to the song they were singin’.
Then I headed back for home,
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringin’.
And it echoed through the canyons,
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.

On the Sunday morning sidewalk,
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
‘Cos there’s something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there’s nothin’ short of dyin’,
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin’ city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin’ comin’ down.