SONG OF MANY DEATHS
words and music
copyright © 1986 by
Roy Zimmerman
copyright © 1986 by
Roy Zimmerman
In fourteen seventy-four, I was born Timothy Yancey
The son of a peasant farmer and a peasant farmer’s fancy
I held a plow beneath each arm, and one more in between
I caught the plague and bought the farm in fifteen seventeen
In fifteen thirty-five, I was born Friederich Plummer
The son of a high-born gentleman, at least that was the rumor
I lived a pure and Christian life until my concubine
Came at me with a butcher knife in fifteen ninety-nine
In sixteen seventy-two, I was both Abigail Neville
The daughter of a Salem goodwife who was dealing with the devil
And at her trial, the counsel frowned suspiciously at me
But I proved innocent and drowned in sixteen ninety-three
Singin’ Hey Ho, Oh Well
Don’t ask for whom tolls the bell
Even if we got to hell, we’re back tomorrow night
Sing I’m here, you’re here
Now, and we’ll be dead next year
But we’re upon this sphere
Until we get it right
In seventeen thirty-five, I was born Reginal Baker
I slipped through the doctor’s fingers and went straight back to my maker
But I returned at five o-clock, an executioner’s son
And I was one chip off his block in seventeen sixty-one
Singin’ Hey Ho, Oh Well
Don’t ask for whom tolls the bell
Even if we got to hell, we’re back tomorrow night
Sing I’m here, you’re here
Now, and we’ll be dead next year
But we’re upon this sphere
Until we get it right
In eighteen hundred and nine, I was born Abraham Lincoln…
Well, I guess you know the rest of that one
Singin’ Hey Ho, Oh Well
Don’t ask for whom tolls the bell
Even if we got to hell, we’re back tomorrow night
Sing I’m here, you’re here
Now, and we’ll be dead next year
But we’re upon this sphere…
In nineteen-recently, we were born of our mothers
And we’ve had a good time in this life, compared with all the others
If you think this show is live, you’re wrong
We’re dying here tonight
But we’ll be back to perform this song
Until we get it right
Right, hey!
The son of a peasant farmer and a peasant farmer’s fancy
I held a plow beneath each arm, and one more in between
I caught the plague and bought the farm in fifteen seventeen
In fifteen thirty-five, I was born Friederich Plummer
The son of a high-born gentleman, at least that was the rumor
I lived a pure and Christian life until my concubine
Came at me with a butcher knife in fifteen ninety-nine
In sixteen seventy-two, I was both Abigail Neville
The daughter of a Salem goodwife who was dealing with the devil
And at her trial, the counsel frowned suspiciously at me
But I proved innocent and drowned in sixteen ninety-three
Singin’ Hey Ho, Oh Well
Don’t ask for whom tolls the bell
Even if we got to hell, we’re back tomorrow night
Sing I’m here, you’re here
Now, and we’ll be dead next year
But we’re upon this sphere
Until we get it right
In seventeen thirty-five, I was born Reginal Baker
I slipped through the doctor’s fingers and went straight back to my maker
But I returned at five o-clock, an executioner’s son
And I was one chip off his block in seventeen sixty-one
Singin’ Hey Ho, Oh Well
Don’t ask for whom tolls the bell
Even if we got to hell, we’re back tomorrow night
Sing I’m here, you’re here
Now, and we’ll be dead next year
But we’re upon this sphere
Until we get it right
In eighteen hundred and nine, I was born Abraham Lincoln…
Well, I guess you know the rest of that one
Singin’ Hey Ho, Oh Well
Don’t ask for whom tolls the bell
Even if we got to hell, we’re back tomorrow night
Sing I’m here, you’re here
Now, and we’ll be dead next year
But we’re upon this sphere…
In nineteen-recently, we were born of our mothers
And we’ve had a good time in this life, compared with all the others
If you think this show is live, you’re wrong
We’re dying here tonight
But we’ll be back to perform this song
Until we get it right
Right, hey!
