Too Nice to Mean Much

by Willi Carlisle

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04:14
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about

Recorded live and to tape at Homestead Recording in Fayetteville, AR

credits

released July 30, 2016

Grant D'Aubin: Bass
Cheyenne McCoy: Cello
Seth Schumate: Harmonica
Abigail RBL Small: Backing Vocals
Eric Small: Backing Vocals
Willi Carlisle: Guitar, Fiddle, Banjo, Accordion, Vocals

Masters by Shine Studios, Austin TX

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all rights reserved

about

Willi Carlisle Fayetteville, Arkansas

Folksinger/poet from the Midwest and upper South.

Contact Willi @
willicarlislemusic@gmail.com for booking, insults, commentary, phone numbers.

www.facebook.com/willicarlislemusic

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Contact Willi Carlisle

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Track Name: Cheap Cocaine
Cheap Cocaine

Eight miles out of Galesburg, I'm starin' at the rain,
Eight-ball left of the cheap cocaine,
And I'm lookin' at the sunlight, light through the pines:
Couldn't tell ya what it is, but it's always been mine.

Now that I'm gone I think of the man
With a meth pipe clutched in his bone-thin hand,
I said, hey brother, I hope you get straight
But I bet I don't meet him at the pearly gates.

Chorus:
And I sing: Hey mamma I been starin' at the rain,
A little heartbreak, a little soul pain,
I been up all night on the cheap cocaine,
Tryna make it better but it's always the same.

Well I made a few new friends in a Rockford bar,
I told 'em all lies, I said I was in charge
Of the afterparty, where the women were loose,
I partied with the metalheads with gin and juice.

Hung over as hell, I slept in shit on the lawn,
I'm tired of twenty-somethins and their punkrock songs.
Wake up in the mornin' and stumble towards the down,
sayin' 'how ya doin, boy, it's been too long."

Chorus

On the streets of Chicago with sidekick Sally
I was hittin' up the bars on Viagra Alley
Where the men pick up women not half their age.
All I had for them was my tears and my rage.

And I thought it was a fight, so I went for my knife,
And the man shook my hand with his kids and his wife.
I was so ashamed that I hung back and cried,
Leave all that to Saint Peter, wait till I die.

Chorus

I been up all night, I been starin' at the sky,
And I'm still lonely, but I couldn't tell you why.
Track Name: Stone County
Stone County:

Well I was born in a suburban city,
Used to play baseball in concrete lots.
As a teenage boy I was none too pretty,
A hug at the door was as far as I got.

But I moved to country at twenty-two,
Tell me what else could a poor boy do?
I found what I's dreamin' of,
Oh, how mountain girls can love!

Chorus:
She said buddy lemmie take you back to Stone County
Where the whipporwill sings in the hills and valleys,
The air it's clean and the folks are keen
On strawberry wine and pure gasoline.

There's a population of ninety-five,
And I get lost inside her eyes.
It's a dirt road uphill, all left turns,
Get lost all night, I'll never learn!

She's round as a biscuit busy as a bee,
Prettiest thing you ever did see.
She's sharp as a thumbtack, deep as a cup,
Takes pints of Budweiser to fill 'er up.

Chorus

She's hotter than a fresh flipped fox in a forest fire.
Everytime she's gone I'ma wonderin' where she are.
There's a Baptist fire comin' out her guitar:
She's my little Ozark star.

Chorus

She's my strawberry wine, she's my pure gasoline.
Track Name: The Small Things
The Small Things

I hope I die in Sedgwick County,
On a cold and wet October.
Turn the earth over,
Lay me in.
Lay me in.

I hope you make the drive up,
Hope it breaks your shitty car,
Hope you bring your guitar,
Sing about what little worms we are.
How the rapture saves us all.

Honey, I dunno if I believe in heaven.
In my head, it's always dark and bare.
Honey, I can't think of an afterlife worth livin'
When in your heaven I know I ain't there.
When in your heaven I know I ain't there.

And if I cry it's for the small things:
Two beers on a Wednesday night,
Church songs in the firelight.

If you sing, sing for the big thing
Hangin' over our heads,
That the best you've done is love
And it still ends up dead.

They're gonna drag me up to heaven
For to see old Saint Peter
In nothin' but a wife-beater
Tell him what I done,
What I done.

I'm gonna fight with all the angels,
Get drunk in heaven's bars.
Sayin' goodbye's too hard.
They'll cut me off.
They'll cut me off.

Honey, I dunno if I believe in heaven.
In my head, it's always dark and bare.
Honey, I can't think of an afterlife worth livin'
When in your heaven I know I ain't there.
When in your heaven I know I ain't there.

And if I cry it's for the small things:
One summer spent hitchin',
Sweet kisses in the kitchen.

If you sing, sing for the big thing
Hangin' over our heads,
That the best you've done is love
And it still ends up dead.

Honey, I dunno if I believe in heaven.
In my head, it's always dark and bare.
Honey, I can't think of an afterlife worth livin'
When in your heaven I know I ain't there.
When in your heaven I know I ain't there.
Track Name: Folk Art Masterpiece
Folk Art Masterpiece

My grandmother grew up in a two room shack,
The last of seven children, used to dress in gunny sacks.
She said that times were hard, family scattered near and far,
Like seeds into the dirt or the dimmest set of stars.

And there's preachers every Sunday, muscodines each fall,
I'd like to die in Arkansas if I should die at all.
You could call it alchemy, some ancient art of old:
Hillbillies with no money spun their garbage into gold.

'Cause I swear a square dance saved my life one hot summer day,
I swear I's bout to kill myself, I swear I's bound away,
I swear I heard the voice of God between the caller's cries:
An Ozark fiddle tune and a pretty girl's brown eyes.


And there's preachers every Sunday, muscodines each fall,
I'd like to die in Arkansas if I should die at all.
I thought that bein' poor would weigh heavy on my soul,
But it's a little drunken happiness like this that makes me whole.

And you say that anyone could make it, and I guess that's so.
I guess I ain't Walt Whitman, I guess she ain't Van Gogh.
You can't account for taste, but I know my north from south,
And it's a goddamn folk art masterpiece when she opens up her mouth.


And there's preachers every Sunday, muscodines each fall,
I'd like to die in Arkansas if I should die at all.
You could call it alchemy, some ancient art of old:
Hillbillies with no money spun their garbage into gold.