Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song There Only Was One Choice, artist - Harry Chapin. Album song The Elektra Collection (1971-1978), in the genre Иностранный рок
Date of issue: 08.10.2015
Record label: Elektra, Rhino Entertainment Company
Song language: English
There Only Was One Choice |
There’s a kid out on my corner |
Hear him strumming like a fool |
Shivering in his dungarees |
But still he’s going to school |
His cheeks are made of peach fuzz |
His hopes may be the same |
But he’s signed up as a soldier |
Out to play the music game |
There are fake patches on his jacket |
He’s used bleach to fade his jeans |
With a brand new stay-pressed shirt |
And some creased and wrinkled dreams |
His face a blemish garden |
But his eyes are virgin clear |
His voice is Chicken Little’s |
But he’s hearing Paul Revere |
When he catches himself giggling |
He forces up a sneer |
Though he’d rather have a milk shake |
He keeps forcing down the beer |
Just another folkie |
Late in coming down the pike |
Riding his guitar |
He left Kid Brother with his bike |
And he’s got Guthrie running in his bones |
He’s the hobo kid who’s left his home |
And his Beatles records and the Rolling Stones |
This boy is staying acoustic |
There’s Seeger singing in his heart |
He hopes his songs will somehow start |
To heal the cracks that split apart |
America gone plastic |
And now there’s Dylan dripping from his mouth |
He’s hitching himself way down south |
To learn a little black and blues |
From old street men who paid their dues |
Cause they knew they had nothing to lose |
They knew it |
So they just got to it |
With cracked old Gibsons and red clay shoes |
Playing 1−4-5 chords like good news |
And cursed with skin that calls for blood |
They put their face and feet in mud |
But oh they learned the music from way down there |
The real ones learn it somewhere |
Strum your guitar |
Sing it kid |
Just write about your feelings |
Not the things you never did |
Inexperience |
It once had cursed me |
But your youth is no handicap |
It’s what makes you thirsty |
Hey, kid you know you can hear your footsteps |
As you’re kicking up the dust |
And the rustling in the shadows |
Tells you secrets you can trust |
The capturing of whispers |
Is the way to write a song |
It’s when you get to microphones |
The music can go wrong |
You can’t see the audience |
With spotlights in your eyes |
Your feet can’t feel the highway |
From where the Lear jet flies |
When you glide in silent splendor |
In your padded limousines |
Only you are crying there |
Behind the silver screen |
Now you battle dragons |
But they’ll all turn into frogs |
When you grab the wheel of fortune |
You get caught up in the cog |
First your art turns into craft |
Then the yahoos start to laugh |
Then you’ll hear the jackals howl |
Cause they love to watch the fall |
They’re the lost ones out there feeding |
On the wounded and the bleeding |
They always are the first to see |
The cracks upon the walls |
When I started this song I was still thirty-three |
The age that Mozart died and sweet Jesus was set free |
Keats and Shelley too soon finished, Charley Parker would be |
And I fantasized some tragedy’d be soon curtailing me |
Well just today I had my birthday -- I made it thirty-four |
Mere mortal, not immortal, not star-crossed anymore |
I’ve got this problem with my aging I no longer can ignore |
A tame and toothless tabby can’t produce a lion’s roar |
And I can’t help being frightened on these midnight afternoons |
When I ask the loaded questions -- Why does winter come so soon? |
And where are all the golden girls that I was singing for |
The daybreak chorus of my dreams serenades no more |
Yeah the minute man is going soft -- the mirror’s on the shelf |
Only when the truth’s up there -- can you fool yourself |
I am the aged jester -- who won’t gracefully retire |
A clumsy clown without a net caught staggering on the high wire |
Yesterday’s a collar that has settled round my waist |
Today keeps slipping by me, it leaves no aftertaste |
Tomorrow is a daydream, the future’s never true |
Am I just a fading fire or a breeze passing through? |
Hello my Country |
I once came to tell everyone your story |
Your passion was my poetry |
And your past my most potent glory |
Your promise was my prayer |
Your hypocrisy my nightmare |
And your problems fill my present |
Are we both going somewhere? |
Step right up young lady |
Your two hundred birthdays make you old if not senile |
And we see the symptoms there in your rigor mortis smile |
With your old folks eating dog food |
And your children eating paint |
While the pirates own the flag |
And sell us sermons on restraint |
And while blood’s the only language that your deaf old ears can hear |
And still you will not answer with that message coming clear |
Does it mean there’s no more ripples in your tired old glory stream |
And the buzzards own the carcass of your dream? |
B*U*Y Centennial |
Sell 'em pre-canned laughter |
America Perennial |
Sing happy ever after |
There’s a Dance Band on the Titanic |
Singing Nearer My God to Thee |
And the iceberg’s on the starboard bow |
Won’t you dance with me |
Yes I read it in the New York Times |
That was on the stands today |
It said that dreams were out of fashion |
We’ll hear no more empty promises |
There’ll be no more wasted passions |
To clutter up our play |
It really was a good sign |
The words went on to say |
It shows that we are growing up |
In oh so many healthy ways |
And I told myself this is |
Exactly where I’m at |
But I don’t much like thinking about that |
Harry -- are you really so naive |
You can honestly believe |
That the country’s getting better |
When all you do is let her alone |
Harry -- Can you really be surprised |
When it’s there before your eyes |
When you hold the knife that carves her |
You live the life that starves her to the bone |
Good dreams don’t come cheap |
You’ve got to pay for them |
If you just dream when you’re asleep |
There is no way for them |
To come alive |
To survive |
It’s not enough to listen -- it’s not enough to see |
When the hurricane is coming on it’s not enough to flee |
It’s not enough to be in love -- we hide behind that word |
It’s not enough to be alive when your future’s been deferred |
What I’ve run through my body, what I’ve run through my mind |
My breath’s the only rhythm -- and the tempo is my time |
My enemy is hopelessness -- my ally honest doubt |
The answer is a question that I never will find out |
Is music propaganda -- should I boogie, Rock and Roll |
Or just an early warning system hitched up to my soul |
Am I observer or participant or huckster of belief |
Making too much of a life so mercifully brief? |
So I stride down sunny streets and the band plays back my song |
They’re applauding at my shadow long after I am gone |
Should I hold this wistful notion that the journey is worthwhile |
Or tiptoe cross the chasm with a song and a smile |
Well I got up this morning -- I don’t need to know no more |
It evaporated nightmares that had boiled the night before |
With every new day’s dawning my kid climbs in my bed |
And tells the cynics of the board room your language is dead |
And as I wander with my music through the jungles of despair |
My kid will learn guitar and find his street corner somewhere |
There he’ll make the silence listen to the dream behind the voice |
And show his minstrel Hamlet daddy that there only was one choice |
Strum your guitar -- sing it kid |
Just write about your feelings -- not the things you never did |
Inexperience -- it once had cursed me |
But your youth is no handicap -- it’s what makes you thirsty, hey kid |
Strum your guitar -- sing it kid |
Just write about your feelings -- not the things you never did |
Dance Band… |