Friday, December 23, 2005

'Twas the Week 'Fore Thanksgiving

‘Twas the week 'fore Thanksgiving and all through the land,
People downloaded shows from their favorite band.

The files they flew off with speed,
They had every Dead soundboard an addict could need.

From Cornell '77 to a jam with Grace Slick,
Don't forget Fillmore East '70-- that shit was sick.

All was happy for Deadheads in cyberspace,
Who would never again listen to garbage like Steal Your Face.

But all was not right in the Land of the Dead,
The revenue had turned from black into red.

The Dick's Picks they sat and collected dust,
Especially 35-- Man, that was a bust!

Just then the mean old grinch, who was named Bob Weir
Said, "Hey, what the fuck is happening here?"

"They're stealing my money-- my kid's college fund.
I've been checking my portfolio and feeling quite stunned.

"This cannot go on. The downloading must desist.
If I lose another cent, I'm gonna be pissed."

And with a wave of his hand (and his lawyer's phone call),
The free downloads stopped-- once and for all.

The Archive lost soundboards and audience tapes too,
And Deadheads seemed to think this decision, it blew.

The Deadheads were angry-- they made quite a fuss:
"Why would the Dead pull this shit over on us?"

"Let's boycott every CD and t-shirt and ticket.
If Bob Weir needs money, we'll tell him to stick it."

But then from the East there arose such a clatter,
Phil Lesh had arrived to see what was the matter.

Outraged he was by the Dead’s strange decision.
The policy, he said, needed revision.

In a wave of his hand, he released a free board tape
With a long ‘Caution’ jam that left many mouths agape.

And for Mickey Hart? You know he couldn’t be left out of the flap.
“Remember me,” he cried. “I do the ‘Fire on the Mountain’ rap.”

“I agree with Phil,” he said. “Although it makes me shiver
Because I can’t stand to be near that jerk and his liver.”

The foundation was shaking; they called Dennis McNally.
He traveled in quickly to stop the protest rally.

“On Pigpen, on T.C., on Godchaux, on Mydland,
On Hornsby, on Welnick—Wait. Who’s Welnick? He ain’t in the band,”

“The AUD tapes are back,” McNally had cried.
“There was a misunderstanding.” But it smelled like he lied.

The AUDs were returned to,
But soundboards had been assimilated into the Borg.

“Bullshit!” Deadheads yelled. “Music should be free.”
“Tough shit,” Bob Weir said. “It’ll cost you a fee.”

“The boycott is on,” they said. “We’ll kick your butts.”
“Fine,” Weir retorted. “Suck on my nuts.”

When hopes were fading and the end was neigh,
Someone had pointed up into the sky.

Gently floating, upon a white cloud he sat.
A bushy beard spoke from a big mound of fat.

“Why the hell are you all acting so crazy?
This looks like a scene from a film by Scorsese.”

“Everyone here needs to shut up and chill.
And what happened to Weir? He looks over the hill!”

“Jerry,” Weir cried. “It’s so great to see ya.
But hey man. We’re broke-- just like North Korea.”

“I have an idea,” Jerry said. “From the days of old.
Go sell my toilet. People thought I shit gold.”

Then he picked up a guitar and played for the masses.
And smiles were found amongst those shaking asses.

The solo, it finished with ooohs and with ahhhs.
Then he concluded by saying, “Where’s my Häagen-Dazs?”

My Life as a Suspected Terrorist