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Tom Russell
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East Of Woodstock, West Of Viet Nam
I slept through the Nineteen Sixties
I heard Dory Previn say
But me I caught me the great white bird
To the shores of African
Where I lost my adolescent heart
To the sound of a talking drum
Yeah, east of Woodstock, west of Viet Nam
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 Viet Nam
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 cried
It was somewhere in those rainy seasons
That I learned to carve my song
Yeah, east of Woodstock, west of Viet Nam
Oh Africa, Mother Africa
You lay heavy on my breast
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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 Viet Nam
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 gone
Yeah, east of Woodstock, west of Viet Nam
Raise high the roof beams carpenter boy
Yeah, we're coming through the rye
It was a movable 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 Viet Nam
Yeah, east of Woodstock, west of Viet Nam
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