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The Singing Publicist

In my two cartons marked SFDA I find some lyrics. (Instead of keeping a diary, I used to write songs.)


Willie Brown took the American flag
Turned it into a shopping bag
Come on baby let’s go downtown
Spend a little, spend a lot
Bring your card for medical pot
Let’s spread a few dollars around

Gray Davis told the National Guard
Stand on the bridge and look real hard
At every SUV Frisco bound
Might be nothing you can do
But the camo’ed sight of you
Will spread a few dollars around

Rudy went to ground zero,
turned into a national hero
Only yesterday he was a clown
Talks the talk, walks the walk,
Come on to New Yawk New Yawk
And spread a few dollars around

George Bush is shrewd and bold
Don’t talk down to an 8-year old
About the evildoers underground
Take a pen, write a card
To a pen pal in Kandahar
Spread a few dollars around

Congress votes billions more
Whatever it takes gotta win the war
And keep the economy sound
Pay by card, pay by check
It’s all made in China so what the heck
Let’s spread a few dollars around

Inner Sunset

I used to have the real estate knack
but all that I gaineth, I giveth back
only to wind up with you in this cozy old
shack in the Inner Sunset years

Obviously I did everything wrong
Except one or two that strung me along
the road to a club called Chez Nancy Wong
—a shack in the Inner Sunset years.

Where there’s noodles at midnight
if you are in need of a treat
Where the Judah car makes an ‘N’
‘n careens down the street

I still believe that it’s all within reach
a big enough place between here and the beach
and from each and according to each
a shack in the Sunset in the sunset years

The blood orange sunset years…
The cool gray sunset years

Haul of Justice

There's a big gray building Eight-fifty it's called
In the name of justice, that's where people get hauled

Thirty judges in their courtrooms, two floors for the cops
Plus the sheriff, the DA, the morgue, and the jail on top.

They say "good guys" and "bad guys," white hats and black
Walk into any courtroom, any morning, look who's sitting in back.

Eight hundred and fifty that's how many tears
The average person's gonna cry when they walk in here

At Café Roma the defenders and the DAs dance
It's a dispo disco, they know the steps, nothing's left to chance

Eight-fifty days away from my wife
Eight-fifty days away from my life

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