Music & Lyrics: Marie-Lynn Hammond

it’s a warm December evening
the moonlit ocean’s calm
and I can see Matthew’s laundry hanging
underneath the coconut palm

the whistling frogs are whistling
the sky’s a-glitter with stars
and the karaoke singers are picking out carols
in the south coast bars

Chorus:
’cause it’s Christmas in Barbados and for me that’s something new
but I don’t miss Christmas back home half as much as I’m missing you
yes it’s Christmas in Barbados and I’m feeling just a little bit blue
’cause I don’t miss Christmas back home half as much as I’m missing you

no I don’t miss the evergreens
I sure don’t miss the snow and the chill
and I don’t miss the crowds and the shopping
and my whopping Visa bill

and I don’t miss the church bells
I turned pagan so long ago
that the only thing I miss is the kissing
underneath the mistletoe

Chorus

and in a Bridgetown bar I heard a reggae band singing “Jingle Bells, jingle bells”
and I almost bought a wreath for my door made of wicker and seashells
and at the Hastings Mall they’ve got tinsel garlands and under a tropical sky
a cut-out of Santa and his reindeer flying by

’cause it’s Christmas in Barbados and for me that’s something new
but I don’t miss Christmas back home half as much as I’m missing you
yes it’s Christmas in Barbados and I don’t know what I’m gonna do
’cause I don’t miss Christmas back home half as much as I’m missing you

oh it’s a warm December evening
the moonlit ocean’s calm
and I can see Matthew’s laundry hanging
underneath the coconut palm

Music & Lyrics: Marie-Lynn Hammond

well you can play that old-time music
you can sing those country songs
and all the children of the cities
they have learned to play along
from a downtown window
busy corner
skies are hidden
and there ain’t no trees
but you can hear that music playing
that sweet-tongued fiddle playing
and it floats through the dusty air
like a country breeze

well they leave the farms
and they leave the small towns
’cause they heard that the cities pay
but at night they go from the yards
and the factories
to join the crowds down main street way
in smoky barrooms
at crowded tables
they down their beer
and they talk about home
they’ve come to hear that music playing
that sweet-sad fiddle playing
things that you never hear
till you’re on your own

so play for them some down home music
yeah sing for them those country songs
and all your children
lost in the cities
they can’t help but sing along
sing of prairie summers
Ottawa river
and Sunday mornings
in a small Quebec town
just try and leave it all behind you
wherever you go it’ll find you
that sweet-sad country music
like a lover, friend, or brother
it’s gonna follow you down

Music & Lyrics: Marie-Lynn Hammond

j’avais une jolie fleur
qui poussait devant ma porte
mais un jour tu es venu
noir et sauvage
maintenant ma fleur est morte

refrain :
chant la vent, chant le ciel
tout est fini
tout mon bonheur est parti

et j’avais une hirondelle
qui chantait sur mon toit
mais un jour tu est venu
noir et sauvage
l’hirondlelle a perdu sa voix

et j’avais un grand amour
qui brulait dans mon âme
et je te l’ai donné
mais tu l’as rejeté
tu as éteint sa flamme

pleure le vent, pleure le ciel
tout est fini
tout mon bonheur est parti

Translation:
I had a pretty flower
that bloomed by my door
but one day you came
you were dark and wild
and now my flower has died

chorus:
the wind sings, the sky sings
everything is finished
all my happiness has fled

And I had a swallow
that sang on my rooftop
but one day you came
dark and wild
and the swallow lost its voice

I had a great love
that burned in my soul
and I gave it to you
but you refused it
you put out its flame

the wind cries, the sky cries
everything is finished
all my happiness has fled

Music & Lyrics: Marie-Lynn Hammond

Well we all know our poor planet is quite close to disappearing
under tons and tons of poisonous manmade shit
and ecologists are daily trying hard to find solutions
so together we can do our best to rescue it
we’ve got ozone holes and PCB’s, acid rain and DDT,
toxins and dioxins and nuclear waste
and now some clever soul’s discovered yet another problem
though some think that to discuss it is in quite poor taste

But that has never stopped me in the past so I will tell you
that it has to do with women and our physiology
and those tampons, pads, and plastic applicators that are
monthly blocking sewers, clogging landfills and polluting the sea.
so now someone has invented a reusable pad made of
cotton rather like the rags of grandmother’s day
and I guess you stash the soiled ones in a bag inside your purse
until you’re home and have a chance to rinse the bloody mess away

Well my head says, oh how noble but my gut says not another thing
I’m supposed to find the time for when my time’s in short supply
I mean I compost, I recycle, I keep worms that eat my garbage
I sew little bags to carry home the bulk foods that I buy
and we women still do more than half the housework not to mention
stuff engendered by our gender that you men will never know
like morning sickness, thirty-hour labours, hysterectomies,
caesarians and killer cramps and heavy monthly flow

But we really must do something ’cuz we’re talking those big E words
now Environment, Ecology, Earth in her time of need
besides giving up disposables can only bring relief, I mean
it’s got so I feel guilty every single time I bleed
yes I’m ready for reusable pads on one condition –
that the labour be divided fairly and therefore since
we women have no choice about it, let us bleed and suffer –
then we’ll hand the whole mess over and we’ll let the menfolk rinse!

[Spoken] Ah, a great idea, I can hear you women thinking —but what if you don’t happen to have a male companion? or what if you don’t want a male companion?

Well, I think this could be organized like a giant diaper service, free of course, so every guy would have to do a voluntary monthly shift, down at the old reusable sanitary napkin plant. I can see it now—vast white rooms, filled with steam, and dozens, no, hundreds of men, stripped to the waist, their bodies gleaming with sweat, hunched over the great vats of boiling water, those muscles at the base of their necks standing out like little golf balls as they rub and scrub and rinse and watch in awe as rivers of water flow away from them, red as roses, red as fire, red as the passion and pain and torture we women have suffered for thousands of years!

Finally men will begin to understand what it means to be a woman! Yes, it would be the dawning of a new age of empathy and harmony between the sexes.. So once again I say—

since we women have no choice about it
let us bleed and suffer
then we’ll hand the whole mess over and we’ll let the menfolk rinse
yes we’ll hand the whole mess over, hand the whole mess over,
hand the whole mess over and we’ll let the menfolk rinse!

Music: Tom Leighton   Lyrics: Marie-Lynn Hammond

they move as quick as flowing water
their manners are rough and their spelling’s worse
they laugh too loud, but it doesn’t matter
they’re an unasked blessing and a blessed curse

they throw stones at your window at two in the morning
you say it’s too late and you won’t come down
but they are full of the juice of persistence
they know they can make you come around

and even though you feel delirious
you know you really can’t get serious
not with those young men, that’s who I mean
young men, so young and green
are you shocked and surprised?
are you scandalized?
or are you, admit it, tantalized?

they ask me what it was like in the sixties
did I ever see The Beatles on LSD
one minute they’re making me feel so young
and the next as old as some redwood tree

they’re big on rap and bands like Sonic Youth
sounds just like noise to me if you want the truth
oh God, did I really say that?
I can’t believe I said that
I used to listen to The Fugs, and Hendrix
and Frank Zappa!

save me from those young men
young and strong
young men can dance all night long
are you shocked and surprised?
are you scandalized?
or are you, admit it, tantalized?

oh what would my feminist sisters think
if they knew I consorted with younger fellas
would they suspect me of reverse exploitation
while secretly feeling just a wee bit jealous

I called an older male friend and I cry
I say I’ve fallen for this wonderful guy
but he’s just twenty-three and it’s such a drag
the friend answers dryly, “Don’t brag!”

older men with young women never had a problem
it’s this other way ’round that’s all so new
I find myself doing pathetic arithmetic
when I’m forty-nine, he’ll be thirty-two
and when he’s forty-nine, I’ll be—oh God, forget it
I’ll be ancient and grey, I’ll be out in the cold
’cause he can get wrinkles and he’ll be distinguished
but when I get wrinkles, I’ll just be old

but still and all perhaps I shouldn’t complain
could be I’ll never taste such sweetness again
with those young men
they have no past
young men think love can last
no mistakes to forget
they aren’t jaded yet
young men they’ve got nothing to regret

young men are big on the big questions
why is there a universe?
why are we here?
I guess I too was like that once
but the answers never came clear
so then I switched from why to how
and lately how shares time with when
as in: oh God, how am I going to pay the rent this month?
and somebody tell me
when will I ever get lucky again?

so often these young men think I’m cynical
they can’t believe they’ll ever get that way
but sometimes their dreams rub off on me
if only for a day

nature’s unfair
he can have kids ’til he’s a hundred and one
but with me if I don’t do it now
well, of course it won’t get done

so he’ll leave me some day for a younger woman
he’ll have a family—a girl and two boys
and I’ll be an old friend he can’t quite explain
who drops round to visit with cookies and toys

and I’ll probably have put on some weight
I’ll need glasses for reading
and he’ll be older too, maybe losing a little hair
but when his wife leaves the room he’ll tease me and say
“I’m still younger than you, so there!”

and what will he see when he looks in my eyes?
will he remember his startled delight
decades and centuries and eons ago
when I laid him down so sweet and so slow
and the stars fell around us on that August night

maybe now, now that I know
I’ll find it in my heart to forgive
all those old December guys
who marry sweet May things
pretty young playthings
Picasso, Trudeau
Chaplin and Fred Astaire
’cause mostly it’s men loving younger women
though you could say I’m trying to turn that around
maybe love is just what you can get away with
so maybe love could be whatever we dare

oh young men
that’s who I mean
those young men
but always over eighteen!
oh young men
those young men

Music & Lyrics: Marie-Lynn Hammond

those clingy black shorts they wear
the tanned and bony knees they bare
the helmets, leather gloves and pumps
the fanny packs upon their rumps
oh I like I like I like—a man on a bike!

even in a navy three-piece suit
with a briefcase on the carrier to boot
a silver clip encircling the shin
to neatly tuck the pant leg in
oh I like I like I like—a man on a bike!
(she likes she likes she likes gentlemen on bikes!)

something ’bout a man on a bicycle
that’s both naughty yet nice-icle
the friendly “Hi”s!
the muscled thighs
I melt just like an icicle
around a man on a bicycle

when it comes to the art of seduction
by now you must have made the deduction
that a fellow in a car doesn’t get very far with me
proving once again that less is more
I say two wheels are much hotter than four
and a five-speed or a ten-speed gives me all the speed I really need
to drive me to ecstasy

what a thrilling non-polluting sight
men pedalling with all their might
crouched like panthers over handlebars
trying not to be run down by cars
oh I like I like I like—a man on a bike!

I just know they must be special guys
I confess they make me fantasize
keep your movie stars for what they’re worth
give me a man who wants to save the earth
oh I like I like I like—a man on a bike!
(she likes she likes she likes gentlemen on bikes!)

something ’bout a man on a bicycle
that’s both naughty yet nice-icle
the friendly “Hi”s!
the muscled thighs
I melt just like an icicle
around a man on a bicycle

Oh I like I really like—a man on a bike!

Music & Lyrics: Marie-Lynn Hammond
commissioned by CBC TV’s Midday, with a 2-day deadline

I’m a woman, I lead a woman’s life
I’ve had three kids, I’ve been a dutiful wife
along the way I suffered every female complaint
enough to try the patience of a female saint
now I’m pushing fifty, figured I’ve paid my dues
what’s my reward? It’s the menopause blues

The menopause blues, the menopause blues
hot flashes flashin’ from your hair to your shoes
brittle bones, insomnia and puttin’ on weight
except for the above I guess I’m feelin’ great
you say some women have no trouble, well thanks for the news
the rest of us are stuck with the menopause blues

I went to my doctor, I said is there a cure
she bit her lip and handed me a pink brochure
about the miracle of hormone replacement pills
the modern way to fix those pesky change-of-life ills
but oops! They might cause cancer—and I’m s’pposed to choose?
Good luck with sorting out all your menopause blues

The menopause blues, the menopause blues
hot flashes flashin’ from your hair to your shoes
so where’s the peace and wisdom that old age brings?
I’m feelin’ like a yo yo with these wild mood swings
would Medicare reimburse me for a round-the-world cruise?
I need a little compensation for these menopause blues

They say don’t fret over these changes that are comin’ on
the benefits may well outweigh the pains
they tell us it’s a natural phenomenon
well so are earthquakes and hurricanes—and rattlesnakes!

The menopause blues, the menopause blues
hot flashes flashin’ from your hair to your shoes
at least there’s no more unplanned pregnancy fear
a pity my libido’s also disappeared
comin’ soon to a body near you and you cannot refuse
so we’d better get used to the menopause blues
yes we’d better all get used to the menopause blues

(hey ,is it just me or is it hot in here?)

Music & Lyrics: Marie-Lynn Hammond

he won’t go to bed for you, but he does for me
she’s never been a sleepy head for you, but she always was for me
they get mad and scream at you, then beam in my direction
so I lead them off like little lambs while you smart at their defection

he won’t say thanks or please for you, but he will for me
she won’t eat her peas for you, but she’ll eat swill for me
now do you wonder why I have such charm and power
to get them doing all the things you can’t
am I some cross between Raffi, and Muammar Qaddafi?
No, it’s simple—you’re the mummy, I’m the aunt

they think my house is prettier
my chesterfield is cozier
my foolish jokes are wittier
my roses they look rosier
my Oreos taste better
and of course my water’s wetter
and the toys you bought that seem to bore them silly
when transplanted over to my house suddenly enchant
am I some cross between Raffi and Muammar Qaddafi?
No it’s simple, you’re the mummy, I’m the aunt

he won’t take a bath for you but he’ll scrub his hide for me
she won’t do her math for you but she’ll divide for me
Still, when disasters happen like a bee sting or a bad dream
and the tears won’t stop for anything not hugs or even ice cream
then a little voice will say
“I want my mummy right away”
because a mother can do special things a mother’s sister can’t
it’s simple—you’re the mum, I’m just the aunt

and though my water may be wetter
only mum can kiss things better
it’s simple—you’re the mum, I’m just the aunt
yes it’s simple—you’re the mum, I’m just the aunt
it’s simple—you’re the mummy, I’m the aunt!

Music & Lyrics: Marie-Lynn Hammond

something about you I realize
Japanese, Japanese
not your hair or your cheekbones or your blue eyes
none of these, Japanese
but some kind of stillness at the core
a mask that tells a story but hides much more
Japanese

the way you fold our bodies together
origami, origami
light as paper or a feather
floating from me
now we are two white cranes
in an ink-black sky
embracing in silence
as they fly
Japanese

your little house floats in the island mist
self-contained, serene
time opens like a fan with a flick of your wrist
there we are in the painted scene
have we not been here forever
taking tea in the garden green
tea in the garden green

you speak in haiku
when you speak at all
Japanese, Japanese
spare with the words
careful how they fall
Japanese

crimson lily caught
in a porcelain bowl
the tiger of passion
in the net of control

and even though we are only starting
I can see now how will be the parting
smiling and bowing, no tears please
Japanese

Music & Lyrics: Marie-Lynn Hammond

planes on the runway
jet fighters overhead
planes flying through your dreams
when you’re lying asleep in your bed
and the job means being ready
for a war no one wants to fight
eternal preparation for those sirens in the night
down on the station

so they play it out in war games
the phone rings early dawn
papa says the code word, grabs his gear
and then he’s gone gone gone
and it’s the biggest tease of all now
imagine how it feels
to spend your whole life cocked and ready
but you never get to shoot for real
down on the station

and every year they move you
if you’re lucky every two or three
so you learn to be real adaptable
’cause that’s how a soldier should be
you get good at playing new kid in school
or new wife on the block
you learn not to get too close
you learn when not to talk
down on the station

Operation Nighthawk
mama’s pacing up and down the hall
she says “Go back to bed now, girls
nothing to worry about at all”
and for years of course you believe her
until one night you know the score
all it takes is a little bad timing
a slight miscalculation
a critical malfunction
and someone’s father don’t come home no more
down on the station

and booze was cheap in the mess halls
you can bet it was planned that way
to keep you from thinking too much at night
about what you did all day

so papa stumbles home around midnight
we listen upstairs in fear
he stalks the house like a stranger
mama’s once again in tears
oh god – and now he’s cursing and raging
he thinks no one understands
he feels trapped in this house full of women
where are the sons he’d planned?

because what could you do with daughters
back in 1962
can’t take them hunting
can’t talk about the war and flying
all the glory and the madness
all the tension and the terror
and how it finally gets to you
down on the station

and it’s the biggest tease of all now
imagine how it feels
to spend your whole life cocked and ready
but you never get to shoot for real –

oh papa can’t you see
we’re not the enemy?

but nobody knows who they’re fighting
nobody knows what for
nobody knows who the enemy is any more
down on the station

About This Song
I’m a songwriter who believes in writing – and singing – about what I know. I grew up an air force “brat,” in the fifties and sixties. (Back then we called the air force bases “stations,” hence the title and refrain.) My father and most of his fellow pilots had fought in World War II. Many had started drinking then – who could blame them? – and some just never stopped. The drinking was only censured if it interfered with work. After all, these men were heroes.
Unfortunately, this meant the families bore the brunt of the trauma. No one dared complain of, or admit to, the problem. In those days, with the military’s rigid, closed, feudally hierarchical organization, it would have been considered breaking rank. I think the families of pilots and their crews suffered the most, especially during the Cold War, for reasons the song describes.