The Great James Dean
Sixty-one doesn’t run west or the east
It makes a half of a cross like a halfhearted priest
But plenty of protagonists have gotten obsessed
Looking for the easiest passage west
I catch you dreaming when you’re wide awake
Thought you were in heaven but you made a mistake.
You’re the great grandchild of Francis drake
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But everyone’s entitled to a hopeful theory
Like a river to the west flowing out of Lake Erie
So you want to be the one to proclaim the adage:
Every man’s heart is a northwest passage
So you bet the farm on a glib remark
Scrap the barn to build an arc
You’re the young lovechild of Lewis and Clark
Stick him in the hold with a pocket of gold and a compass rose
Gonna see if he can float with a chain around his throat when the boat overflows
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Now I bet you’re wishing you could plead the fifth
But you haven’t got a voice to plead it with
Cause it’s a long long way from the north to south
Like it’s a long long way from the brain to the mouth
Spend a long time there in between
Trying to find the words to make a scene
You’re the great grandchild of the great james dean
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When it’s quiet on the set, you hear the din
The echo of every dark place you’ve been
You got a paperwhite bushel of flowers in your fist
& a rolodex of people that you almost kissed
Sorry if you’re waiting for a promising omen
I can be cold as an abominable snowman
I’m a born entertainer, I’m a natural showman
Doesn’t matter who you are, gonna cover you in tar and eiderdown
Chain around your throat, putting on a show in the stocks downtown
Listen to me lord, this is the last time
Don’t turn my livelihood into a pastime
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But I could still believe in love if there’s a credible sighting
Like I’d believe in myself if I see it in writing
One little story with my name on the byline
Between the Frisco bay and the Frisco skyline
But for now I’m living on the hook and lure.
I’m not a saint but I’m just as pure:
I’m the great grandchild of the great John Muir
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Gonna climb up a redwood sticking through the fog
I’m sly like a fox and I sleep like a log.
I know greatness grows from a tiny kernel,
One good line in a leatherbound journal
& for now I’m living on water and bread
Got granite for a pillow and a glacier for a bed
I feel the most alive when I’m nearly dead
Listen to me, lord, this is the last time
Don’t turn my livelihood into a pastime