In my dream last night, I was riding on the Mayflower when I thought I spotted this man riding up to me on a mule wearing binoculars. Most of you already probably guessed who it was, but I was skeptical, so I asked for some ID.
Was I ever surprised!
Anyway, I asked him my most burning question ever, "What was the whole mortorcycle accident thing about?"
But he told me he was the Bob of Ballads Past (i.e. pre-Newport).
I said Bob, "you must be puttin me on"
Bob said, "No."
I said "What?"
"I'm just here to sing about that nut. The one with the words that were shot like a gun."
You mean that guy called Joe Wilson?
Bob said, "That's the one."
Then he tuned up a bit (it was acoustic so there was no chance for the ghost of electricity to howl through the bones in his face.") and played the following:
The Ballad of Addison Graves "Joe" Wilson
Oh Mrs. Wilson, are you proud of your son?
Do you smile with favor on the things that he’s done?
You raised him from a baby to the highest rung
Oh Mrs. Wilson, are you proud of your son?
During the war, he carried no gun
But joined the reserves to avoid all the fun
At least like the hippies, he didn’t run.
Oh Mrs. Wilson, are you proud of your son?
He went to the white school in old Charleston
And later worked for that racist, Strom Thurmond
He’s got some issue, but don’t everyone?
Oh Mrs. Wilson, are you proud of your son?
But now there's this man who’s got him outdone
The President -- he’s Black! and second to none
He ran for that spot, it was hard, but he won
So real Americans call him our number one.
Not so much your beloved son
His world fell apart and his plans were undone
This uppity boy took away all his fun
Oh Mrs. Wilson, are you proud of your son?
So last night he sat with hate on his face
With fancy cufflinks, and a flag pin in place
Like a drunk in a bar, our House he disgraced
Oh Mrs. Wilson, how does that pride taste?