{"id":54,"date":"2011-09-09T15:50:17","date_gmt":"2011-09-09T15:50:17","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/site\/?page_id=54"},"modified":"2021-04-10T14:09:36","modified_gmt":"2021-04-10T18:09:36","slug":"album-small-victories","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/?page_id=54","title":{"rendered":"Album: Small Victories"},"content":{"rendered":"

Please note: This album is temporarily Out of Stock.<\/strong><\/h2>\n

You can still Download tracks or the entire album at<\/strong>:\u00a0Bandcamp<\/a><\/p>\n

\"\"1. The King of Rome 5:24
\n2. Small Victory 4:11 (lyrics<\/a>)
\n3. One More Ride 6:28 (lyrics<\/a>)
\n4. His Father’s House 4:58
\n5. Stars in Their Crown 6:01 (lyrics<\/a>)
\n6. Off the Rails 4:53 (lyrics<\/a>)
\n7. One Bullet 7:47 (lyrics<\/a>)
\n8. Sleeping Buffalo 6:32 (lyrics<\/a>)
\n9. The Lost Ones 7:00 (lyrics<\/a>)
\n10. For Herself 5:45 (lyrics<\/a>)<\/p>\n


\n
\n
\n\"\"<\/form>\n

\u00a91990 Snowgoose.<\/p>\n

\n

<\/a>
\nSmall Victory<\/strong><\/p>\n

You’ve no business buying a mare like that, but buy her if you must.”
\nHe bit the end off his cigar and spat it in the dust.
\n“She’s old and lame and barren, too
\nShe’s not worth feed and hay
\nBut I’ll give you this,” – he blew smoke at me –
\n“She was something in her day.”
\n“I recall her well ten years ago; she was a winner in her prime.
\nShe was fast and lean and willing, but they raced her past her time.
\nAnd though she had the heart, her legs were gone,
\nAnd it wasn’t hard to see, they kept her at it
\nIn the hopes of just one more small victory.”<\/p>\n

“She was shunted \u0152round from track to track, from Kentucky up to Maine.
\nThey’d run her in cheap claimers, all doped up to mask her pain.
\nAnd it it’s my advice you ant I’d say, the poor thing’s had her day
\nYou’d be throwing good cash after bad. It’s best you turn away.”<\/p>\n

Well they led her \u0152round the auction shed, and the bidding started low.
\n“She’ll go for dog food,” someone said, “the market’s been that slow.”
\nBut she raised her head and pricked her ears, and before the hammer fell,
\nShe was mine.
\nMy friend turned \u0152round to me “You’re soft-headed I can tell.”
\nBut she’s been shoved from pillar to post,” said I, “And always done her best.
\nThey used her up, they wrung her dry; you’d think she’d earned a rest.
\nSo if she does not naught but end her days beneath some shady tree,
\nI’ll have saved her from the knacker’s yard, and that’s enough for me.”<\/p>\n

Well, that was near two years ago, she’s filled out some since then.
\nThe more so since she’s been in foal, she eats enough for ten.
\nAnd this morn as I crept to the barn around \u0152bout half past three,
\nThere stood nursing on still trembling legs, one more small victory.<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nOne More Ride<\/strong><\/p>\n

My legs had gone to sleep
\nBy the time we made Swift current,
\nI gather up my suitcase and guitar.
\nWhen I saw him on the platform in a cap and baggy trousers,
\nHe nodded as I stepped down from the car.<\/p>\n

I was zipping up my coat,
\nHe was flagging down a taxi
\nFor a flustered mother,
\nHe sent her on her way.
\nA young woman turned and asked me,
\n“Does that man work for the railroad?”
\nI said, “No, that’s Bill, he’s here every day.
\nThat’s old Bill, he’s down here every day
\nHe likes to work, he won’t take pay.
\nHe’s been here since he retired in \u015282
\nI’ve seen his kind everywhere I go.
\nThey’re made to feel too old and slow
\nThey’re restless when they have no job to do.<\/p>\n

He wants one more ride, before his time is over
\nI think he worked these rails before the war.
\nOne more ride, and you know he’d better hurry,
\nThe railroad won’t come through here anymore.”<\/p>\n

He was blowing across his coffee
\nAt the counter in the restaurant
\nI sat down next to him and said, “Hello.”
\nI said, “I guess the days are numbered
\nWhen you can work here at the station
\nThey’re closing down the line, now where’ll you go?”<\/p>\n

He shook his head, he bit his lip
\nHis cup and saucer rattled.
\nHe cleared his throat and slowly turned around
\nHe said, “I don’t know what I’ll do.
\nI’m too old to change my habits,
\nI can’t believe they’d close the railroad down.”<\/p>\n

He said “I love the sound, I even love the smell
\nGod damn the bastards all to hell
\nHow dare they say the railroad won’t pay?
\nI wanted one more ride, before my time was over,
\nTo feel the wind and hear the diesels roar.
\nOne more time, to dream when I was younger,
\nBut dreams count for nothing anymore.”
\nWell I gave in to the impulse,
\nI ran and bought a ticket,
\nI brought it back and set it by his side,
\nI said, “Let’s head out west together,
\nI tell my best lies in the club-car.
\nCome on old man, let’s take one more ride.
\nWe’ll drink and watch the sun sink
\nIn the flames across the prairie,
\nAt nighttime feel the darkened coaches sway
\nWe’ll hear the whistle echo through a thousand icy canyons.
\nCome on old man, let’s go. What do you say?”<\/p>\n

His eyes grew bright, he raised his chin
\nThe longing hit like a gust of wind
\nAnd then he shook his head and whispered,
\n“Thanks but no,<\/p>\n

Some dreams you win, some dreams you hold,
\nSome haunt you like the gleam of gold.
\nAnd I’ll hang on to this one
\nThank you all the same.”
\nOne more ride, the time is over”
\nWe stood outside to watch the sun go down.
\nOne more ride,” I heard him whisper in the darkness.
\nAnd he turned to walk toward the lights of town.<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nStars in Their Crown<\/strong><\/p>\n

That pair in the corner,
\nThey’re here every Tuesday
\nThey come when the market first opens its stalls.
\nAnd it’s got so that lately
\nI’ll wait just to see them
\nTheir heads bent together,
\nAs they come down the hall.<\/p>\n

And her hair has grown whiter
\nHis has grown thinner
\nAnd their pace has slowed down,
\nAs the years have grown long
\nBut they keep step together
\nAmongst strangers who hurry,
\nThese two old companions,
\nWalking slowly along.<\/p>\n

They always take the same table
\nAnd they open their menus,
\nAnd I watch as his hand stretches out to touch hers,
\nAnd she, with the other, reaches under her chair,
\nAnd fumbles her glasses from out of her purse.
\nAnd she reads him the specials,
\nHe does the ordering,
\nThey joke with the waitress, about watching their weight
\nBut the waitress says nothing, she just snaps her gum
\nAnd then brings their dessert,
\nThat they’ll share from one plate.<\/p>\n

Sometimes I watch them too closely,
\nThey notice me staring
\nAnd they smile at me vaguely,
\nNot really seeing my face
\nBut they know I’m a stranger,
\nNot one of their friends
\nWho have died, or long since
\nMoved away from this place.<\/p>\n

They keep to themselves
\nThey’re each other’s shelter,
\nTwo hearts grown together,
\nTwo parts of a whole
\nAnd I smile at them shyly,
\nI know I intrude, on this pair of old lovers,
\nAnd I turn and I go.<\/p>\n

But, you know that I’ve seen them
\nAs they leave the cafe,
\nHe pull out her chair,
\nAnd he helps her to stand
\nAnd he holds out her coat,
\nAnd he hugs it around her
\nAnd together they leave
\nHolding each other’s hand.<\/p>\n

And there’s a love beyond words
\nIn their every small gesture,
\nAs the two old companions make their way through the town
\nA love beyond name, beyond years, beyond measure
\nAnd the days that they share
\nAre the stars in their crown.<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nOff The Rails<\/strong><\/p>\n

He went off the rails in White River Junction
\nIn a roadhouse in the eastern edge of town.
\nKnowing finally that the dream had left him beaten
\nSinking shots of booze as fast as they’d go down.<\/p>\n

They had to help him from the stool where he’d been sitting
\nHe was frozen from the stillness in his heart.
\nI said, “Mister, you can’t drive in that condition,
\nHere’s your jacket, where’s your keys, I’ll fetch your car.”<\/p>\n

I drove him to his motel across the river,
\nHe sat so quietly, I thought he as asleep
\nBut the moon showed her pale face through forest branches,
\nI could see the tears of anger on his cheek.<\/p>\n

He said, \u0152There’s the love you need and there’s the love you receive,
\nAnd there’s a difference,
\nAnd when the love is wrong, you’re better off alone
\nIt leaves you heart confused, and your spirit twisted,
\nAnd the loneliness can chill you to the bone.<\/p>\n

I’ve had it up to here with loving from long distance,
\nShe’s he too many nights of waiting home alone,.
\nToo many ultimatums, too much blind resistance,
\nToo much anger, too much silence on the phone.”<\/p>\n

He said, “There’s the love you need and there’s the love you receive,
\nAnd there’s a difference,
\nAnd when the love is wrong, you’re better off alone
\nIf leave you heart confused, and your spirit twisted,
\nAnd the loneliness can chill you to the bone.”<\/p>\n

He straightened up, and said, “I think you for your trouble.”
\nAs I parked his car beneath the motel light
\nHe said, “How will get home? You’re miles form nowhere.”
\n“It’s not far,” I said, “I like to walk at night.”
\nI said “There’s the love you feel and there’s the love you give,
\nAnd there’s your difference.
\nAnd when the love you give falls short of what you feel
\nWords stick in your throat, and leave you choking,
\nAnd what’ in your heart, is what you best conceal.”<\/p>\n

And so I left him in that motel in New Hampshire,
\nWith the TV on, the sound turned down to low,
\nSeeking answers in the shadows on the ceiling,
\nCome tomorrow noon, he’ll pack it up and go.<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nOne Bullet<\/strong><\/p>\n

The rain is soaking to my shoulders
\nFalling soft upon the leaves,
\nFalling on these silent soldiers
\nWho hide beneath the forest eaves.<\/p>\n

I can see it in their faces
\nAll the strain and all the fear,
\nMonths of war has etched their traces
\nOn the boys who huddle here.<\/p>\n

Our leaders order us as cattle
\nAnd beat our plowshares into swords,
\nThus we gird our young for battle
\nAnd fill their minds with empty words.<\/p>\n

Not for those who give the orders
\nAny place in this charade,
\nSafe behind their chartered borders
\nNot for them the grim parade.<\/p>\n

Knuckles whitening, faces paling
\nHope that withers with the dark
\nHands that falter, courage failing
\nWaiting for the cannon’s bark.<\/p>\n

For yesterday I sent their brothers
\nScrambling up this hill to die,
\nThe day before that, were the others.
\nWho yet on the meadow lie.<\/p>\n

I watched them as the battle closes
\nAmidst the carnage and the din,
\nSeen their wounds like deadly roses
\nBlooming crimson on their skin.<\/p>\n

I’ve heard them coughing as they stumble
\nI’ve heard their moaning as they lie,
\nHeard frightened prayer turn to mumbles,
\nAnd final silence as they die.<\/p>\n

The dead lie in their awkward slumber,
\nHaving answered glory’s call.
\nLying scattered beyond number
\nPiled like cordwood by the wall.<\/p>\n

And as for me I’m sick of sending
\nThese frightened boys to butchery,
\nI swear that when this day is over,
\nThere’ll be one bullet left for me.<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nSleeping Buffalo<\/strong><\/p>\n

He lives an hour outside of Billings
\nThe distant hills are brown and sere
\nThe wind plays tricks outside your hearing
\nAnd whispers lies into your ears<\/p>\n

He’s got a station at a crossroads
\nHe’s got war medals in his den
\nHe’s got a wife in the county hospice
\nShe’s not coming home again<\/p>\n

He filled my tank and cleaned the windshield
\nHe popped the hood and checked the oil
\nHe wiped his hands upon his chinos
\nHis eyes were as dark as prairie soil<\/p>\n

He said, “Do you know of the Sleeping Buffalo?
\nThey’re about a half an hour away
\nA ring of sacred stones upon a hilltop
\nThat’s what the Indians say<\/p>\n

The Indians gathered in the springtime
\nBearing gifts for the Buffalo
\nThe white men set the stones in concrete
\nBehind a fence beside the road<\/p>\n

I used to go when I was younger
\nBefore I fought in Hitler’s war
\nNow it’s a park for the goddam tourists
\nI won’t go there anymore”
\nHe said, “Son I ain’t no Indian
\nYou can look at me and tell
\nBut bastards like Custer had it coming
\nI hope he’s burning still in hell”<\/p>\n

I left him at that windy crossroads
\nThe shades of night began to fall
\nI thought I’d drive toward the sunset
\nAnd pay the Buffalo a call<\/p>\n

The sun was just below the hilltops
\nThe night wind pulled me by my shirt
\nI walked toward the granite figures
\nBehind the fence, set in the dirt<\/p>\n

They loomed dull grey in the gathering twilight
\nI saw faded paint of red and blue
\nSome ancient hand had chiseled markings
\nNow a graven image for a roadside zoo<\/p>\n

But I drew near I saw the flowers
\nTobacco and fresh cartridges lay near
\nAnd so, for some faithful unseen wanderers
\nThe Buffalo’s spirit lingers here<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nThe Lost Ones<\/strong><\/p>\n

The shadows \u0152neath the trees do grow,
\nThe sun’s embers die away.
\nThe hush of night falls o’er these hills
\nAt the turning of the day.
\n\u0152Twas on nights like this we’d gather here,
\nBrief crowded hours to fill
\nIn kinship and good harmony,
\nIn my dreams, I can see us still:<\/p>\n

By candlelight, by whiskey’s glow,
\nEach shining upturned face
\nWould raise a voice, would raise a glass
\nIn those wild and tumultuous days,
\nWhen we neither cared, nor lacked for time,
\nWhen all the world was wild and new.
\nNights heady as a glass of wine,
\nAnd our mornings filled anew.<\/p>\n

So it was, those wild and scattered years,
\nWe reckoned not the cost,
\nBut those who light burned truest and bright
\nWould be numbered amongst the lost.
\nAnd on chance-met street, or crowded bar
\nWe few, now left behind, would raise
\nNot a glass, but a rueful brow
\nAt the passing of our kind.<\/p>\n

So now I stand beneath these garden walls,
\nThe moon above me wheels.
\nThe stars are cast through the field of night,
\nAnd the wind like a drunkard reels
\nThrough the empty gate, the silent house,
\nThe windows dark and blind
\nBut what slips like sand through desperate hand
\nIs treasured yet within the mind.<\/p>\n

For those lost ones still before me stand
\nAll present as of old,
\nIn the tangled skein of passing years
\nThey shine like threads of gold.<\/p>\n

So here’s a health to those no longer near,
\nAnd a glass to those departed
\nWho yet shine on through our darkening years
\nThe brave and gentle-hearted.<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n

<\/a>
\nFor Herself<\/strong><\/p>\n

She walked downtown that Saturday
\nAnd bought herself some flowers,
\nWhere the farmers park their pick-ups
\nUnderneath the city towers.
\nShe took them back to her apartment
\nAnd arranged them in a vase
\nShe has so many things to do,
\nTo occupy her days.<\/p>\n

Later on that night she went for drinks
\nWith the new man from the firm,
\nShe caught him staring once too often
\nAt the young girl with the perm,
\nOr was he just admiring his own reflection,
\nIn the glass across the room.
\nAnd she was tired of his perfect profile anyway,
\nAnd was gone before he knew.<\/p>\n

Outside the bar she drew a grateful breath
\nAnd she turned to head for home.
\nShe was glad of her own company,
\nBy herself felt less alone,
\nBut she’s a disappointment to her parents
\nShe’s a worry to her friends
\nShe’s forty years, they’re still counting
\nShe’s still single, still, more or less content.<\/p>\n

So she does lunch in shadowed fern bars
\nWith her power suited friends,
\nAnd they shrug their padded shoulders
\nAnd ask, “What the deal with men?”
\n“Some men want you for a mother.”
\nSome men want you for a whore.”
\n“Some men want Ingrid Bergman
\nWho they can drag into a sewer.”
\n“Old men want you for a trophy.”
\nYoung men mostly act too tough.”
\nAnd I don’t care how old they get
\nThey never quite grow up.”
\n“And men whose wives don’t understand them.
\nOr maybe understand too well.”
\nBut what a man her age calls marriage,
\nIs for her, another word for hell.<\/p>\n

So she stands at the kitchen window
\nWatching children as they play.
\nSometime scared, she’s often lonely
\nIt’s a prices she’s glad to pay
\nTo bide her time in solitude,
\nHer friends insist she’s on the shelf
\nBut she won’t jump through hoops for any man,
\nThey’ll have to take her for herself.<\/p>\n

back to top<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Please note: This album is temporarily Out of Stock. You can still Download tracks or the entire album at:\u00a0Bandcamp 1. The King of Rome 5:24 2. Small Victory 4:11 (lyrics) 3. One More Ride 6:28 (lyrics) 4. His Father’s House 4:58 5. Stars in Their Crown 6:01 (lyrics) 6. Off the Rails 4:53 (lyrics) 7. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"parent":6,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-54","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/P7qHGF-S","jetpack-related-posts":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/54","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=54"}],"version-history":[{"count":20,"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/54\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":28947,"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/54\/revisions\/28947"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/6"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/garnetrogers.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=54"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}