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Chicken Shack

from Home by Chris Monti

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lyrics

Chicken Shack

-words and music © 2011 Chris Monti

Dressed in black by the chicken shack | You stole my chickens now I’m taking them back |

I wake up in jail surly and hung over | Not dreaming of grouse or geese or plover | But of you you you, you filthy little thief | And of the theft of my chickens that’s brought me so much grief |

I approach you like a man and ask for what’s owed | But all you do is jeer and goad | I take a swing and miss and meet with you fist | And that’s the last thing I remember… | Then I awake in a cell, bloody face and hands tender | My minds gone from black to blue to red | How I’ll get you back, the only thought in my head |

I duck the pillory, now I’m on the loose | I dodge the hangman, slip the noose | Knock down the guard with my fist where he stood post as a sentry | and make and exit of the entrance of that old penitentiary | I jack the bondsman who’s post bail, sweep my tracks and leave no trail | With the bondsman’s purse I buy a coat and a gun | And I go the bar to drink down the sun |

When the day draws down I make for the woods | Through the fields, to the farmhouse, to my stolen goods | Downwind of the dogs, I inspire no bark | And then the clouds break and the light cuts the dark | In the glow of the moon’s pale blue light | I am revealed to be as I am tonight |

Dressed in black by the chicken shack | You stole my chickens, now I’m taking them back |

I slip into the coop as quiet as a fox | And realize I have neither sack nor box | How many chickens can I hold against my breast? | I fit eight in my coat and set free the rest |

Like a mad fat man I make for the road | A trail of feathers giving away my load | The highway made I slow to a walk | And quiet my scared chickens with soft soothing talk | But then a shift in the air, something’s not right | My chickens and I are not alone on the highway tonight | Jumped by bad actors at the edge of town | Gun butt to head and I go down | They open my coat and there to be found | Eight sleeping chickens making not a sound |

Till the light of the moon hits the black of their eyes | They startle our assailants with their angry chicken cries | The scared men swing till all the chickens are dead | While I can do nothing but bleed from the head | The chickens dispatched they go for my gold which till this morning the bondsman did hold | Of boots coat and gun I am also relieved | Then left with my chickens to shiver and grieve | My brood in my arms I’ll bleed till I die | With the last of my breath this thought I confide: |

There is no chicken that a man did own | That the grim chicken reaper didn’t bring back home |

credits

from Home, released December 1, 2010
CM on the mic

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Chris Monti Providence, Rhode Island

Known for his effortless style and musical curiosity, Chris has immersed himself in West African guitar, dug deep into country-blues and old-time music, and moves seamlessly between diverse styles from Egypt, Peru and India. He has toured the East Coast, Canada and points west. He also enjoys his singular role in the community as a strange combination of entertainer, educator, and magician. ... more

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