Words Words, no music

Phil the Balloon Man

Phil the balloon man floated away
We keep our things heavy to make sure we stay
in one place, I suppose there are those that might say
If you stay still you only grow old

One day he took me and Zig to his room
In his garden apartment where he met his doom
The speakers he cranked up to play us our tune
were the size of his refrigerator

He was crazy but sweet that he shared what he taped
at a maximum volume our ears had been raped
was a show that we played where we took stage so late
That the dawn had started arriving

The creamery seemed the very best place
for the hipsters to gather who shared the same taste
for music and mayhem and all that is laced
making it seem surely life is a dream

Phil would record and he never got bored
there were boxes and bureaus and crates where he stored
every sound that the scene made in central New York
In the years of the coldest of very cold wars
when the dogs started barking , did all their remarking
through funk, rhymes and polybeats
encampments and westcott street.

And Phil brought balloons for “my children” to hold
till sooner or later they’d always let go
cause sometimes the very best thing to be done
is to watch what you love fly away
It might not seem so while you’re holding it tight in your hand

Phil brought balloons, recorded our tunes
kept us all smiling beneath the bright moon
when he came out to check out the band