@bdp24
So often you contribute much by way of informed music criticism and great knowledge of popular music history. There are just sometimes, however, a point you make has to be contested; in this case, "...lyrics of little interest". If these below were all he he ever wrote, it would be enough for me. If you don’t recognize the unique beauty here, probably best to stick to playing drums and forget the second career as literary critic! :-)
The Wind Cries Mary
Jimi Hendrix
After all jacks are in their boxes
And the clowns have all gone to bed
You can hear happiness staggering on down the street
Footprints dressed in red
And the wind whispers Mary
A broom is drearily sweeping
Up the broken pieces of yesterday’s life
Somewhere a queen is weeping
Somewhere a king has no wife
And the wind, it cries Mary
The traffic lights they turn a blue tomorrow
And shine their emptiness down on my bed
The tiny island sags downstream
’Cause the life that they lived is dead
And the wind screams Mary
Will the wind ever remember?
The names it has blown in the past
And with its crutch, its old age and its wisdom
It whispers "no, this will be the last"
And the wind cries Mary
So often you contribute much by way of informed music criticism and great knowledge of popular music history. There are just sometimes, however, a point you make has to be contested; in this case, "...lyrics of little interest". If these below were all he he ever wrote, it would be enough for me. If you don’t recognize the unique beauty here, probably best to stick to playing drums and forget the second career as literary critic! :-)
The Wind Cries Mary
Jimi Hendrix
After all jacks are in their boxes
And the clowns have all gone to bed
You can hear happiness staggering on down the street
Footprints dressed in red
And the wind whispers Mary
A broom is drearily sweeping
Up the broken pieces of yesterday’s life
Somewhere a queen is weeping
Somewhere a king has no wife
And the wind, it cries Mary
The traffic lights they turn a blue tomorrow
And shine their emptiness down on my bed
The tiny island sags downstream
’Cause the life that they lived is dead
And the wind screams Mary
Will the wind ever remember?
The names it has blown in the past
And with its crutch, its old age and its wisdom
It whispers "no, this will be the last"
And the wind cries Mary