lonesome dog blues

I got a dog in my back yard, howled the day my baby's gone
I got a dog in my back yard, howled the day my baby's gone
Yes he puts my mind on a wonder, how that thing was goin' along

You know a thing's so sad, when a dog feels it deep down in his heart
You know a thing's so sad, when a dog feels it deep down in his heart
Guess you know a man can't help but mess around her,
When a dog in his backyard hates to see them part
(Sam (Lightnin') Hopkins)

cab calloway Minnie the Moocher

Folks here's a story 'bout Minnie the Moocher; she was a red hot hoochie
coocher.
She was the roughest toughest frail; but Minnie had a heart as big as a whale.
Hi de hi de hi de hi
Ho de ho de ho de ho
Hee de hee de hee de hee
Ho oo waooo waoooo
She messed around with a bloke named Smokey; She loved him though he was kokey.
He took her down to Chinatown and showed her how to kick the gong around.
Hi-de-hi-de-hi-de-hi
Ho-whooooaaaa-ahhhh-ohh
He-de-he-de-hee-de-he
Ho-oh-ho-oh
She had a dream about the king of Sweden; he gave her things, that she was
needin'.
He gave her a home built of gold and steel, a diamond car, with the puh-latinum
wheels.
Hi-de-hi-de-hi-de-hi-de-hi-de-hi-de-hi
Ho-de-ho-de-ho-de-ho-de-ho-de-oh
Skeedle-a-booka-diki biki skeedly beeka gookity woop!
A-booriki-booriki-booriki Hoy!
He gave her his town house and his racing horses; each meal she ate was a dozen
courses.
She had a million dollars in nickels and dimes; she sat around and counted it
all, a million times.
Hi-de-hi-de-hi-de-hi
Ho-oh-whoaa-oh-oh-whoa
He-de-he-de-hee-de-hee
Poor Min! Poor Min! Poo-oor Min

summertime

Summertime,
And the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high

Your daddy's rich
And your mamma's good lookin'
So hush little baby
Don't you cry

One of these mornings
You're going to rise up singing
Then you'll spread your wings
And you'll take to the sky

But till that morning
There's a'nothing can harm you
With daddy and mamma standing by

Summertime,
And the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high

Your daddy's rich
And your mamma's good lookin'
So hush little baby
Don't you cry

Strange fruit

Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

At last
on line
the Italian Rididillo's picture show
Have a good trip!

BIBO DREAD LION