East Of Woodstock, West Of Viet Nam

Song East Of Woodstock, West Of Viet Nam
Artist Tom Russell

Lyrics

作曲 : Tom George Russell
I slept through the
Nineteen Sixties,
I heard Dory
Previn say
But me I caught me the great white bird, to the shores of
AfricayWhere
I lost my adolescent heart, to the sound of a talking drum
Yeah, East of
Woodstock,
West of Vietnam
And on the roads outside
Oshogbo, Lord
I fell down on my knees
There were female spirits in old mud huts, iron bells ringing up in the trees
And an eighty-year-old white priest, she made juju all night long
Yeah, East of
Woodstock,
West of Vietnam
Raise high the roof beams carpenter boy, yeah we’re coming through the rye
In the cinema
I saw the man on the moon,
I laughed so hard
I criedIt was somewhere in those rainy seasons, that
I learned to carve my song
Yeah, East of
Woodstock,
West of Vietnam
Oh Africa,
Mother Africa, you lay heavy on my breast
You old cradle of civilization, heart of darkness blood and death
Though we had to play you running scared, when the crocodile ate the sun
Yeah, East of
Woodstock,
West of Vietnam
Well I think it’s going to rain tonight,
I can smell it coming off the sea
As I sit here reading old
Graham Greene
I taste Africa on every page
Then I close my eyes and see those red clay roads, and it’s sundown and boys
I’m goneYeah,
East of Woodstock,
West of Vietnam
Raise high the roof beams carpenter boy, yeah we’re coming through the rye
It was a moveable feast of war and memory, a dark old lullaby
It was the smoke of a thousand camp fires, it was the wrong end of a gun,
Yeah, East of
Woodstock,
West of Vietnam.
Yeah, East of
Woodstock,
West of Vietnam

Pinyin

zuò qǔ : Tom George Russell
I slept through the
Nineteen Sixties,
I heard Dory
Previn say
But me I caught me the great white bird, to the shores of
AfricayWhere
I lost my adolescent heart, to the sound of a talking drum
Yeah, East of
Woodstock,
West of Vietnam
And on the roads outside
Oshogbo, Lord
I fell down on my knees
There were female spirits in old mud huts, iron bells ringing up in the trees
And an eightyyearold white priest, she made juju all night long
Yeah, East of
Woodstock,
West of Vietnam
Raise high the roof beams carpenter boy, yeah we' re coming through the rye
In the cinema
I saw the man on the moon,
I laughed so hard
I criedIt was somewhere in those rainy seasons, that
I learned to carve my song
Yeah, East of
Woodstock,
West of Vietnam
Oh Africa,
Mother Africa, you lay heavy on my breast
You old cradle of civilization, heart of darkness blood and death
Though we had to play you running scared, when the crocodile ate the sun
Yeah, East of
Woodstock,
West of Vietnam
Well I think it' s going to rain tonight,
I can smell it coming off the sea
As I sit here reading old
Graham Greene
I taste Africa on every page
Then I close my eyes and see those red clay roads, and it' s sundown and boys
I' m goneYeah,
East of Woodstock,
West of Vietnam
Raise high the roof beams carpenter boy, yeah we' re coming through the rye
It was a moveable feast of war and memory, a dark old lullaby
It was the smoke of a thousand camp fires, it was the wrong end of a gun,
Yeah, East of
Woodstock,
West of Vietnam.
Yeah, East of
Woodstock,
West of Vietnam