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A Visit From Saint Jerry (GratefulDead)

Twas the night before a Dead show, and all through the town,
                           Not a ticket could be purchased, not a mushroom could be found;
                           The tie dyes were hung by the tape deck with care,
                           In hopes that the party soon would be there;
                           House guests were nestled all-snug in their bags,
                           with psychedelic dreams of all night dancing jags;
                           when out in the street there arose such a noise,
                           I sprang from my bed to see if it was the Inca Boys.
                           Away to the window I swam like a bass,
                           Tore open the curtains and fell through the glass;
                           The lights on the crust of the four-day-old snow,
                           Gave Denver the lustre of a Nuclear Blow;
                           When, what to my flashblind eyes should appear,
                           but an electric kool-aid bus, loaded with gear;
                           with a fat old driver, all spaced-out & hairy,
                           I knew in a moment, it must be THE JERRY!
                           More rapid than eagles, his followers came,
                           And whistled, and shouted, and called out by name;
                           "Play Truckin', play Terrapin, play Shakedown, play Mars!"
                           They came by the planeload, by foot, and in cars;
                           They filled up the sidewalk, and soon blocked the street,
                           They came by the thousands, most were named Pete;
                           All 'Round my house, the numbers of Dead Heads grew,
                           So I pumped up the Boom Box and served Chex Mix too!
                           And then, in an instant, I heard from the bus,
                           The banging and clanging of a mass exodus;
                           As I drew up my head and was turning around,
                           Out the bus door came Jerry in a transplendent bound;
                           He was dressed all in black, quite simply extreme,
                           His clothes were encrusted with pralines and cream;
                           A beat-up guitar was flung on his back,
                           He looked like your average rock music hack.
                           His eyes how they sparkled, all bloodshot with merry,
                           His cheeks were so rosey, we nicknamed him cherry;
                           As he grabbed his guitar and drew it up like a gift,
                           The air grew thinner, and the ground started to shift;
                           When he began to play, deftly moving his hands,
                           Everyone around me fell into a trance;
                           Then all of a sudden, something went 'bing',
                           And I too was doing the Go-Jerry Swing.
                           I swung on my venus and I danced on my head,
                           Feeling so Grateful, I had nothing to dread;
                           When Jerry played solo, it lasted an hour,
                           But I don't remember, I was rappin with a flower;
                           The band stopped playing, as quick as they started,
                           They hopped on the bus and graciously departed;
                           But I heard them all chant, as past me they hurled,
                           "Wake up to find out that you are the eyes of the world"
(c)1990 Kenny Be, Westword Dec 12-18, 1990reproduced without permission

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