Jon-Olov Woxlin



Act aloof (music & lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

Your shoes are muddy, soaked in dirt;
your pants are ragged, your elbow’s hurt,
your fingertips feel numb and sore;
ain’t even capable of opening a door.
Your lawn is messy, filled with trash,
you’re suffering from some obscure rash,
you’re looking stupid, quite like a goof,
don’t take it hard, just act aloof.

Your bedroom window’s open wide,
The neighborhood gets a peak inside,
but there ain’t nothing to be seen,
‘cept a full scale picture of Charlie Sheen,
kindly keeping you company
in lack of a woman, quite tragically.
The rain keeps falling on your broken roof,
Don’t be alarmed, just act aloof.

You ain’t got no strings left on your guitar,
and the music store, it lies way up far.
If only you knew one single tune,
That would ease your pain and eclipse the moon.
You haven’t slept well for quite a while;
You have a lots of broken thoughts to reconcile.
You have a hard time seeing the real truth,
But, that’s alright, try to act aloof.

You feel like eighty, but you’re twenty-three,
Your body is a prison from which you’ve never been free.
The world keeps turning; your days are still lit,
There’s nothing to do ‘bout it, gotta get used to it.
Today the rainbow seems awfully bright,
It’ll probably outshine the forthcoming night.
Somewhere someone’s listening to Howling Wolf,
Yeah, that’s all right; act aloof.

You’re stuck in prison for who knows what,
You’ve thought of leaving, but the gates are shut.
You’ve lost all faith in humanity,
You find more comfort from a manatee.
You never thought you’d get stuck like this,
Never thought you could get deceived by a kiss,
And the judge keeps refusing all your proof
of innocence, try to act aloof.

A place to go (music & lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

Lately I’ve been sitting ’round listening to the words
spoken by the water in the creek.
I find them more substantial than any words I’ve heard
uttered by anyone this week.
The water won’t cease to flow;
thus life itself won’t stop to grow.

This is the place to go, if you’re looking for
somewhere to withdraw
from both your body and your soul.

I remember vaguely the big old oak tree
that in our youth we used to climb.
The memory, though, is shrouded in mystery;
I can't see through it, even if I’d try.
Expectations are lower than low,
I’ll just sit and listen to the water flow…

This is the place to go…

Somewhere someone told me that life begins today,
everyday of every week and year.
I reach down with my palm into the water and find some clay,
and suddenly it all becomes too clear;
Time runs through my fingers,
it’s never something that lingers…

This is the place to go….

The ballad of Carl Henry (music & lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

His hair was just as ragged
as the clothes upon his skin.
He rode on a wagon
towards a town without a name.
He greeted people kindly;
he looked into their eyes,
he shook their hands, and proudly
told them, that on his head, there was a price.

He had shot a man
in the town Gothenburg.
He just couldn’t stand
living like a bum.
He saw an opportunity
to get some fast earned cash
brining down a pedestrian
who’s life was ’bout to end in a flash.

He was an outlaw
rules did not apply to him.
He was heading for a fall,
but it sure did not frightened him.

His name t’was Carl Henry
the only son of Bill.
Their last name I can’t remember;
t’wasn’t mentioned in his will.
Bill hadn’t much to leave him,
after reaching Pluto’s nest,
but some bottles of gin
and a tattered goat skin vest.

Carl Henry was a failure
in the eyes of his kin.
Or as said by his former jailor
”Where the hell’ you been?
You should have been institutionalized
a long time ago.
The things that you have done
no man alive should ever know.”

He was an outlaw…

He broke out of prison
on a chilly autumn eve.
He had one final mission
before this world, he would leave.
He would do right by his father,
do right by his kin.
He would lead his horse to the water
and by force make it drink.

The stars up above
were shining just like stones
made out of gold
with promises of love,
but Carl Henry got a feeling
of someone behind his back,
with a finger on a trigger
soon to make a deadly flick.

He was an outlaw…

Ninette (music & lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

Her name, it was Ninette,
her dark, long hair cast shadows on the streets.
Her clothes were soaking wet
as result of her begging on her knees.
A general store manager
fought her like the plague;
he threw a bucket of water
over her head.
But she carries on,
she needs to provide for her daughter and her son.

All the way from Romania,
born under the reign of Ceaușescu,
working for the Mafia,
put in Sweden on some dirty avenue.
Where she lives not a life,
but some version of death,
with no end in sight,
till she’s paid of her debt.
So, she carries on;
she needs to provide for her daughter and her son.

People pass her by,
tossing change into her broken paper coffee cup.
No one wonders why
she sits there or if they’re giving her enough.
She feel a sickness
growin’ on her chest.
She’s got no time to sleep,
got no time to rest,
but she carries on…

Politicians make their way
through the forest of ignorance and greed,
leading pe’ple astray
with lies about where certain paths might lead.
One morning Ninette
was found dead on the curb.
The only thing she did regret
was being born into this world.
Now she is gone,
with no one to provide for her daughter and her son.

Curb your dog (music & lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

Fleeing down the street,
there’s a cat without a leash.
After comes a hound
with foam running from its mouth
The owner of the dog
comes running in wooden clogs
The day has just begun,
and they’re already on the run.

Curb your dog
curb your dog
the world is overrun
by a bunch of people acting smug.
Curb your dog.
Curb that dog.

Throw a stick onto a curb
of some lonely suburb.
Wait for some hound to come,
and pick it up and run.
Tails are wagging, legs are lagging
behind along the way.
Though, everybody’s running
nobody wants to stay

Curb your dog…

Dogs barking in the night
gives some people a fright.
I don’t know where to begin;
I got plenty adrenaline
- But I don’t know where to channel it,
this feeling of regret.
Maybe I’ll go running, too,
’til my face starts turning blue.

Curb your dog…

My head starts a-aching
as my eyelids open up.
My mind has been forsaken;
just waiting for the bomb to drop.
It’s just like a kennel
out there on the streets,
and you cannot change the channel;
your bound to watch these geeks.

Curb your dog…

Joey the deserter (music & lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

The songbird’s whistlin’ at the moon;
The air feels cold and dry.
Perhaps not now, but really soon
The army squad will pass on by.
Joey was a product of Uncle Sam,
He was taught how to spot the red.
He fully knew how to protect and serve the land
Of the ones who first showed him how to dread.
Mushroom clouds are aiming towards the sky
The war draws near;
People are gonna die.

In his hand, Joey held a gun,
He was set up to make a kill.
He’d smoke a cigarette, if only he’d had one;
Just anything for his lungs to fill
’cept with the foul stench of death and oil,
That was reigning cross the lands.
The world is, oh, so easy to destroy;
If only you get one single chance.
’Round him tanks were ploughing up the earth,
guns were firing,
people a-getting hurt.

The battlefront lay before his feet;
There he saw many young men.
There was no place to make a friendly greet;
The only thing vital was oxygen.
The thoughts of Darwin felt mighty true,
As he gazed upon the heroic brigade.
Joey was no solider, he withdrew
Back to camp, where low he laid.
Still, Joey did not survive the war;
He was a deserter,
That’s reason for.

Cold Swedish winter (music & lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

The cold Swedish winter has brought me to my knees,
It has not much to offer but a cruel sneezing disease.
The cold Swedish winter has caused me lots of pain;
It made me loose my darling one, and drew me half insane.

The Swede’s are heavy drinkers; it’s a stereotype that’s true,
Among the common idea that they are always blue.
If you connect these two together you’ll eas’ly understand,
Why it is, that oh so many Swedish people end up mad.

The cold Swedish winter has scared my woman off
To some foreign country. She said she’d had enough
Of the biting cold that is so vicious in this land.
This talk ’bout global warming just can kiss my rear end.

The fire place is sparkling and throws shadows on the wall,
Outside upon the darkened sky, you see a shooting star.
You take sip of whiskey and wish for something good,
Though good is just another word that you never understood.

The cold Swedish winter has brought me to my knees,
It has not much to offer but a cruel sneezing disease.
The cold Swedish winter has caused me lots of pain;
It made me loose my darling one, and drew me half insane.

Singing Jerry Seinfeld (music & lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

I met a woman late last night,
she pounded me to the wall with all her might,
she whispered to my ear I like your looks,
then she offered me a chewing gum and one I took.
I immediately embraced
those feelings that she felt,
I analyzed the taste,
thinking of Seinfeld

I woke up on a Sunday morn,
I's feeling kind of blue but it nearly showed,
I's thinking 'bout that girl of mine,
and the other one I had to leave behind.
They were both wrapped
round my head like a belt,
it should make me dizzy 'cept
I's watching Seinfeld.

Some people might consult
Fjodor Dostovjeskij or Sigmund Freud,
when feeling low-down, while doing time.
Although I'm not a criminal it might be a crime,
that my psychologist,
is a man who's smug and bent;
he may be a misanthropist,
Jerry Seinfeld.

Seinfeld might not be aware
of them church bells tolling in the air,
nor when hobos lying hungry in the gutters,
for him there's only one thing that truly matters,
and that's reading superman
a.k.a. Clark Kent,
he's spreading humor throughout the lands,
Jerry Seinfeld

Fiddling renegade (music & lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

Come gather ‘round me friends and a story I will tell,
‘bout a great old fiddler y’all should remember well;
Abraham Hult of Northentrail.
It was said that he’d made a bargain with the man by the stream,
He mastered the violin in a way that never had been seen;
He was one with the machine.

He could play that fiddle like nobody else;
He’d play during funerals or to tolling wedding bells,
Just whenever he’d get the chance.
The local minister cursed his noble deeds,
Said: “He plays the kind of music on which the fallen angel feeds!
He’s an offspring of the beast!”

Abraham was a rebel; he did not heed the words,
Spoken by the man of God, the preacher of the church.
He’d been a bastard son ever since his birth,
So he never went along for the whole God charade,
He felt he wasn't welcome, the way that he was made
A fiddlin’ renegade.

The mist, it lay heavy upon the holy burial ground,
Where the wife of Abraham laid buried safe and sound;
Six feet down beneath the ground.
Abraham bent over her nameless grave,
And spoke the words he knew he could not say,
‘neath the thundering sky so grey.

The affection of the moment, in all its righteousness,
Made the priest believe, though, he was indeed possessed
By the grasp of Satan. Lord, he needed to be blessed.
His violin was taken from him, forcefully and wrong.
He vanished from the scene, and headed back for home,
Where his children sat alone.

Ever since that day Abraham lived in solitude,
He’d only leave his cabin for to gather up some food,
Or if he was in the mood.
He began to bootleg, started drinking heavily;
His children didn’t make it, they fell asleep, you see,
For all eternity.

A myth began to grow around the fiddler, Abraham.
His name, it became famous, throughout the land;
It even made its way to the royal command.
The King himself required him to attend a ceremony,
But Abraham just shook his head; he wanted to stay free
Like an eagle o’er the sea.

It’s a matriarchy (music & lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

There’s a fire down on Lucky Street,
I’m lucky I’m not there.
Smoke rises towards the sky;
pandemonium in the air.
I asked my lady what might be on the agenda.
She said: “nothing much, we’ll just sit here on the veranda,
And wait out the fire and all the mayhem that it has caused”.
I said: “Well, of course, my dear”, while holding my fingers crossed.

She was puffing a big cigar,
She blew smoke into the fire.
We sat there most quietly,
As the fire was rising higher.
In her lap there lay a whip that she would gladly use
If I were to question her authority abuse.
Of course I would never dream of such a thing,
instead I sat and stared, tense like a violin string.

“I don’t like the cutlery
That you bought the other day”,
She said with a voice
That bordered on insane.
“I don’t like the way to talk, nor the way you move and turn
around whenever you realize that you’ve just gotten bur3ned.
All and all I guess you could e’sily say,
That I don’t like you in any possible way”

There’s a fire down on Lucky Street,
I wish that I was there,
I’d rather be consumed by flames
Instead of sitting here,
Listening to your words of poison, that pollutes the air;
It’s way more than what one man could bare to hear
I guess that I will just have to endure,
‘cause it is a matriarchy, of that I am quite sure.

Down in this grave of mine (music & lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

Did you see for me I was aware
of the treachery of life,
when I stood alone feeling bare,
standing on the edge of a knife.
Did you see for me I was ready
to comprehend your twisted games,
with a mind anxious and unsteady,
constantly seeking for a change.
These question I will carry
all along the line,
'til the day that I'm buried
down in this grave of mine.

Did you see for me I was treated,
as deserved by the blood in my veins,
and furthermore that I wasn’t cheated
of this when you first crafted my brains.
Did you see for us You were aware,
when You allowed Iscariot to make his deceit,
and left us in a world of despair
with suspicion towards anyone we'll ever meet.
These question I will carry
all along the line,
'til the day that I'm buried
down in this grave of mine.

CoBrA (music & lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

T’was in nineteen-forty eight in the café Notre-dame,
Where a few avant-gardists started questioning the game.
They’d come from different cities, from different country’s they had roamed
For to meet in Paris, where the Cobra would be born.

One had travelled many miles, even ‘cross the sea,
From the town of Copenhagen, to create new art history.
He was a man full of expression, the artist Asger Jorn,
He truly would make sure, that the Cobra would be born.

From the land of Van Gogh and Rembrandt, the city Amsterdam,
a couple of Dutch artist’s were eager to make a stand.
Soon they would rise up like The Blue Rider’s and The Storm,
And together they’d see to it, that the Cobra would be born.

Karel Appel was one of the artist’s names,
The other one just called himself Corneille.
They had grown sick and tired of the war;
They had to make a change, that’s why the Cobra would be born.

Finally from Brussels, two artists did remain,
The last pieces of the puzzle, the final colour stains,
There was Joseph Noiret and Christian Dotremont.
Now, all put together the CoBrA group had been born.

They were indeed rebellious, they opposed the academy;
they painted just like children, with minds just as free.
Soon they would suffer public ridicule and scorn,
But they didn’t care, because the CoBrA had been born.

Same old strife (music & lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

Today I thought I would loose my mind,
Instead I was unfortunate to find
That I’d been crazy my entire life.
Then, why would this particular day
Be any different in any way?
It’s the same old living, same old strife.

Visions, they are strange, when they come true,
And I’ve envisioned you wherever I have roamed.
Though, I’’d never thought I would feel this blue,
Had never thought I would get this cold.

Today I thought…

I saw you walking down the aisle, gal;
Your feet swept softly ‘cross the floor.
A cross was burning, and a glimpse of hell,
Came shining through the only opened door.

Perhaps tears are my only salvation;
The only way of getting back home.
But, I ain’t got enough concentration,
To even feel sadness no more.

Atheistic Street (music & lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

The leaves have fallen outside the cabin door,
just like they have so many times before.
The air too feels normal but you really can’t be sure,
the Devil might be near you or it just might be Al Gore.
Monet is catching the moment, while the hail is a-falling down,
the church stars accepting that the world is round.
Just how many times have you heard the church bell sound,
echoing for the one's who never changed their minds.
If you wanna talk things over, there's a place where we could meet,
and I think it ought-a be down that atheistic street.

Salvador Dali, he nearly choked to death,
entering the stage with a glass ball on his head.
People on the parquet floor laughed their faces red,
thought it was a joke, not an art piece, not a threat.
"There's seven people dead on a South Dakota farm,"
Zimmerman did sing about men being armed.
People might be thinking that wherever there's a barn,
there's also deep depression, gloominess and harm.
If you wanna talk things over, there's a place where we could meet,
and I think it ought a be down that atheistic street.

Just how many times have people asked themselves,
the reason why there aren't any books in their shelf’s.
Not even authors like King, Christie or H.G Wells,
just the type of books that you know for sure that sells.
The carpet may not match the paper on your wall,
in terms of colors, textures, patterns and all,
neglect these dilemmas if you think it is a bore,
and put all your energy on what’s hidden in your drawer.
If you wanna talk things over, there's a place where we could meet,
and I think it ought-a be down that atheistic street.

The crown upon your head it may sparkle in the night,
it may give you comfort, it may shine you a light,
and thereby also improve your inferior sight,
which might come handy in your attempts to write
your documents and papers, your political notes,
when paying for your big luxurious boats.
But remember this, that when you start to count your votes,
your big seized yacht will be the only thing that floats.
If you wanna talk things over, there's a place where we could meet,
and I think it ought a be down that atheistic street.

Talking Crazy/Dreaming Izzy (lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

I went down to the Folklore Centre,
I hesitated ‘fore I decided to enter,
Inside I got a glimpse of Izzy Young.
He sat in a rocking chair,
Acting like he didn’t care;
I immediately felt I’d done something wrong.
After a while he looked at me;
I didn’t know if I were to nod or kneel,
So ‘stead I just kind of shook his hand.
He asked me what my business were
“I just wanna make myself sure
That you won’t ask me about a certain Zimmerman”

“Zimmerman?” I quoted, making a frown,
“Now, who is that son of gun?”
I laughed nervously, and scratched my cheek.
Then he noticed my guitar, and said:
“I’ve seen your type before I’m afraid,
and I’ve gotta tell ya’, you ain’t what I seek”
I said: “All I crave, Mister Young,
Is thirty-two dollars and to become
Famous, just like Joni Mitchell”.
He looked at me, kind of sly,
Laughed and said: “Oh, me oh my!
Play your song and I go wait in the kitchen”.

I played my tune, upon his request,
Doing the thing that I love best,
But Izzy had already left the room.
The rocking chair was now the only thing,
Left around to hear me sing,
I started feeling crazy as a loon.
So, I finished off with a major chord,
I figured Izzy had gotten bored,
Or clearly that was what it seemed.
‘Till finally he launched back in
all hopped up on caffeine.
T’was then I realised it was all just a dream.

On his side stood Blind Boy Grunt,
Johnny Cash, Townes van Zandt,
Ledbelly, John Prine and Bill Monroe.
I woke up all soaked in sweat;
Couldn’t get hold of my breath,
I just tried to comprehend what it was that I saw.
Though, I decided, quite fast,
That I’d better lay it to rest,
And just keep on keeping on.
The only thing I knew I had to do,
Was to put on my jacket and my walking shoes
And get my ass down to Izzy Young’s.


Nickel and dime (music and lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

There’s been a murder on New Years Eve,
Lieutenant Columbo arrives to the scene.
He ponders with a face most quizzically,
and then pointing with his index right straight at me,
asking for my whereabouts for the time of the crime
“well, I’ll tell you, sir, only if you’ll give me a nickel and dime”.

“Pardon, sir”, Columbo said with a grin,
stroking gently the tip of his chin.
“I think you heard me right”, I boldly did say,
“I’d be pleased to tell you, sir, but I would need a good pay”
He said: “you’d better tell me right now if you don’t wanna do time”
“Well, I’ll do anything, sir, only if you give me a nickel and dime”

Kim Jong Un/Fidel Castro/George W Bush enters the room,
along with Mussolini resurrected from his tomb,
they’re both riding Napoleon Bonapart’s horse
wearing faces with no sign of shame or remorse;
just like an old painting from the renaissance time.
It’s amazing what to find if having a nickel and dime

“I’ll hand you a nickel”, Columbo said and then he frowned,
tossing with the coin like a bone in front of a hound
“What in the world can you get from a nickel, pray tell?”
“Well, I can puit it wisely on the bottom of a wishing well,
wishing for all man kind to get along and be fine;
all I crave for that to happen would be a nickel and dime”

Worn out Boulevard (music and lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

You woke up on a cloudy day, wishing that
the night had kept on going
at least for another day or two, until the crack
of some other morning,
when the stars and planets above your head
would stand exactly in your gain,
so that the day that you’d been facing then
wouldn’t drive you as insane,
as the day when you got caught up in a
pattern of lies and theft.
You thought you knew well what you did
When you took all your things and left
Way off far
In the Worn out Boulevard.

You lay on a dune, silhouetted by the sun
Rising ‘bove the ocean,
Strained by the use of your head as you’d
Dreamt all night of a-owning a fortune.
A golden cane for you to lean on
In times of a-misery,
When hard times would hit you in your face,
And strike you down to your bended knees.
You’d always been a clean-cut kid, a man
Of nobly blood;
Every decision you’d ever made was good,
‘cept moving to this neighborhood,
where life was hard
on the Worn out Boulevard.

The woman on your side did not provide
No consolation,
For she was too, the same as you, stuck in
This situation,
Always being pushed around by bullies
Of the city.
Gestapo like they’d perform their deeds,
Viciously and gritty.
“Every man for himself”, she told you
with a grin,
as the dole out the cards and permanently
tossed away the king
from her deck of cards
onto that Worn out Boulevard.

You pondered as rose up from the sand
Where you’d been lying,
The whole night long, like a Vietcong, just
a-waiting to be dying.
Wondering how the heck you came to end up
At this location;
So near to the sea, so close to be free from the
Thing they call civilization.
Civilized is a funny word when applied
in social matters”,
someone yelled somewhere off in the dark
and lonely distance;
it could be the tsar
from the Worn out Boulevard.

Once you had a fine degree and an
Academic diploma,
And a loving wife with an urge to strife;
You didn’t know where she would lead ‘ya.
As long as you were calm within, you
Didn’t see the flaws
That she was carrying upon her sleeve,
Rapped around a rose.
You were mislead into a hallway of self-
But you knew there had to be a light somewhere
In some direction.
You just followed a star
To the Worn out Boulevard.

Ringing of the bells (music and lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

With your hands in your pocket,
with your eyes focused down,
will you leave behind?
With a smirk on your face,
or with a blue sad frown,
are you one of kind?
Would you turn yourself
inside out, burst into flames,
cry until your eyes get dry,
just to glorify the ringing of the bells.

With your mind all set up,
with you mission, oh, so clear,
will you heed the innocents?
When you're traveling towards your target
with no trace of fear,
you're telling me it won't affect your sense?
Would you, babe, change your religion?
Fall into oblivion, neglect your health,
and change your ways, or even die
just to glorify the ringing of the bells.

When the rooster crows at midnight time,
when right is suddenly left,
when everything is considered to be a crime,
everything 'cept murder and theft…

We're walking down the street together,
with my face against the wall.
Tell me what's the color of the sun?
You greet almost everybody
that's a-passing by my pitiful soul,
tell me when will they be gone?
Your eyes are cold but your hands are warm,
don't wait out the storm, fire off your shells.
Make a difference, do what you wanna do,
And, please, listen to the ringing of the bells.

The rain starts a-falling,
I get water inside my socks;
“Babe, at least lower the whip”.
She said: "I'll think about,
just a few more blocks,
you see, I got such a good grip"
Oh, babe, when will this change?
When will your rearrange and tell
the truth instead of all your lies
to anyone who glorifies the ringing of the bells.

Ain’t much fun (music and lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

There is a train running through the building,
It keeps time with the tears that ‘re falling from your cheek.
The floors are trembling to the sound
Of the locomotives that are rolling in the deep.
Your eyes are hollow and gazes upon
A wall as empty as your time has come.
Death is lurking ‘round the corner,
‘cause if this is living, it ain’t that fun.

The floor above works as your inner ceiling,
Someone’s laughing and having a real riot;
Whereas you are contemplating,
Just a-sitting still, acting most quite.
Your eyes are now fixed at the clock on the wall,
You wonder where all your happiness has gone;
Perhaps it has found its way to your neighbor,
‘cause if this is living, it ain’t that fun.

The sky is grey, and show’s no sign of shifting
Into another colour, of which that mother earth provides.
The air, too, feels kind of bitter,
As you are realizing, that you start loosing your sights.
There’s nothing to do, but lay for while,
And mournfully wait for the rising sun.
Maybe then, you’ll feel a little better,
‘cause if this is living, it sure ain’t that fun.

You’re seeking comfort from the voices in your TV,
Maybe you’ll find something that’ll calm yourself down.
But if that is going to work,
You have got to start, ‘least try, believing.
There’s a chilly wind that’s moving around,
But you can’t figure out where it’s coming from.
The laughter seems now even harder,
And if this is living, it ain’t that fun.

Lands of the fiddler (music and lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

When morning came at the first day of dawn,
when Adam and Eve first came to be born.
Where were you with your poems of scorn
to mock those around you for spreading their corn.
Where were you when the red sun went down,
beyond the grey hilltops of Mountainlake town.

When the old-time fiddler first drew he bow,
after meeting with Satan, selling him his soul,
he stroke the strings softly with a tender glow
in contrast with the landscape all a-covered in snow.
The music it brang made him sad as a clown,
now he's stuck with the Devil in Mountainlake town.

The local saloon down on main street,
always is a-soiled by dirty ol' feet.
You come there to drink, you come there to beat
the hell out of anyone that you meet.
A poor little fellow, he sadly did drown,
because of all drinking in Mountainlake town.

The souls and the spirit consumed by the beast
are leaping in the gutters for being deceased.
Listening to the psalm of the drunken old priest,
while praying to the Lord for being released.
Your body may leave, but your soul will be bound
to the lands of the fiddler in Mountainlake town.

God’s golden shore (music and lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

I'm sitting on a park bench,
feeling most insecure,
thinking 'bout the government
like a-many times before.
To my bended knees it steps up a whore,
she says: "hey, man I think I know what you are looking for"
This offer struck me in my guts like
I'd been gored.
I shut my eyes, tried to visualize
God's golden shore.

The pale light from the moon
was reflecting upon her face.
Her skin was young, as my song,
but did not amaze
me the way she did expect, but anyway
I said to her she ought a stop messing 'round
and change her ways,
if she was aiming at quitting her filthy shore,
and instead turn her head
and gaze upon
God's golden shore.

The sun was setting up
as we had our dispute,
whether or not she should stop and
toss away her boot,
not that I was interested in her,
though she was cute,
but she was in fact the one that stole away my flute.
Instead I kindly walked her to the door,
saying "that's the way, to the bay and then 'hooray';
God's golden shore".

Oh, I'm sitting on a bark bench
feeling most alone,
thinking 'bout the government like I've done
since dawn,
cursing the way they've let things carry on,
though the country has a-fallen apart around them
and never grown.
Just hope some day, they'll take their eyes up from the floor,
and instead, with that said, gaze upon
God's golden shore.

Yet continuing burning (music and lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

One time ago you led the way, gal;
Showed me how to cover up the clouds
That anxiously float above my head, gal,
Whenever I would be struggling my doubts.
I thought you always would stand on my side,
Even if the world would stop turning.
But suddenly I’s swept away by a tide,
Yet continuing burning.

The picture of you waving me goodbye, gal,
Has dimmed my sights and left me insecure
‘bout heading out again without you near, gal,
on that path of life beyond the golden shore.
The rain’s pouring heavier than ever before;
For you, babe, I am still yearning.
Soaked in rain I feel the coldness of my soul,
yet my heart is burning.

The battle drums are roaring ‘round my head, gal,
telling me to stand up and be strong;
never to let go of the memories of a-you, gal,
never to let go of this lonesome song.
Me, I’m just a-waiting ‘round for my brain to cease;
Collapse under the pressure of thinking.
The world seems blurry and my legs feel numb and weak,
but my eyes are burning.

Bohemian disguise (music and lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

The walls, surrounding me,
Are all draped in paintings;
Different views entirely
On life’s many statements.
Leaders are falling down,
With no one to pick up the crown.
Waves are folding on the sea,
Making the bed of infinity.
One painting in particular
Has caught my glossy eyes.
I don’t know why, but I’m sure
I’m gonna need my bohemian disguise.

The poet is reciting
With his machine-gun voice,
A piece of his own writing;
He really got no other choice.
People standing ‘round,
With their cell-phone cameras on,
Trying to catch a glimpse
Of their hero through the camera lens.
It’s almost as if we were
A legion of laboratory mice.
I don’t know why, but I’m sure
I’m gonna need my bohemian disguise.

There were tearstains on the letter
That I’s writing for her.
Oh, it made feel much better
When I tossed it into the fire.
I should leave my worries behind,
But I know life ain’t that kind,
So I’ll just carry on,
knowing it all soon will be gone.
I look into a mirror,
But I cannot recognize
Myself, because somehow I’m sure
I’m wearing my bohemian disguise.

Brand new start (music and lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

Mama, I cannot hear you with
All this fussing going on;
Try to sing me a song,
So I know no one can do me no wrong,
As I walk down ‘long the pavement
Of the low-down avenue,
Feeling lonesome and blue.
Mama, I cannot hear you,
The world is a-breaking apart,
Waking up to a brand new start.

Mama, please heed my words,
But don’t bother to reply;
I just wanna rely
On you when I feel bad enough to cry.
As I walk down ‘long the highway
In an ever ending search
For something better or worse.
Mama, please heed my words,
I can feel it in my heart,
That the world’s gonna wake up to a brand new start.

“Watch out for the apocalypse”,
someone shrieked from beyond.
I didn’t care all that much,
I knew I stood on solid ground.

So, mama, don’t leave me astray,
I’m counting on you to be near;
To burry my gear
In some distant valley a thousand miles from here.
Then I’ll be roaming down that dirt road
On a golden summers day,
Feeling happy and gay.
Mama, don’t leave my astray,
Let me keep on riding your cart
Right into that world’s brand new start.

Within the crowd of many - there lies a crowd of few (music and lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

The time has come for you to sum
up your armed men,
accompanied by thousand drums
from morning to morning again
over thee,
for you to
find within the crowd of many
there lies a crowd of few

Lead your men to victory,
leave no one behind.
There's no need in reading your dictionary,
if you're already blind
blind to see
what others do,
cause soon you'll find within the crowd of many
there lies a crows of few

often in time of confusion,
man can’t act at all
he cannot see the solution
even if it's written there on the wall.

There isn't room for conspiracy
among our fighting men,
everyone just have to agree
to terms of living hell
try to flee
if you're blue
cause soon you'll find within the crowd of many
there lies a crows of few

The ballad of Elston Gunn (music and lyrics Jon-Olov Woxlin)

Elston Gunn he came around
in time of the old cold war.
His eyes were sharp, his mind profound;
qualities you'd never seen before.
He sang a song as on he road
into New York town
about outside control of men,
performed on foreign ground.

Elston Gunn, he proudly stood,
upon his strong believes,
singing 'bout the way things should
be, and his views on the battlefields.
He sang about all those poor men
who fought and died in wars.
He sang about all those poor men,
who were ruled by force.

Elston Gunn, he knew he was bound,
to change the world into the better.
Otherwise he knew he was bound
to die in some heroic battle;
Fighting for his own dear land,
in which he was born,
Fighting for he own dear land,
not taking any scorn.

Elston Gunn, he drew his gun,
so the world could see,
Pointing out his blue-eyed son,
and what he might be.
Something's gonna happen soon,
but you don't know what it is.
Something's gonna happen soon,
oh, don't let it come to this.