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Preface: You'd have to live in The Berkshires

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'neath a back-lit semi-dome, where a king once made his home

they praise each otherís vapid re-creations

played for chicks they couldnít swoon, with guitars they never tune

and chordings that betray their desiccation

then like elvis in the stall, sits the weakest of them all

for his regimen of scheduled acclamation

as i humbly wait my turn, thinking soon he will adjourn

to where he plies his daily occupation

but iíll still take time to get my licks in

wondíring how the mason-dixon

made its round across the sound and nestled in our hills

where the keepers of the stock

sift the content from the schlock

chalk it up to midweek in massassippi

since my teens Iíve had the knack, of rephrasing any fact

in tapestries of melody and rhythm

but I've failed in my respect, for this childish disconnect

that keeps me and my peers across the schism

of artistic jealousy -- did they cut it just for me

is but one amongst the diggers that creative

so I wait my three-and-out, with a smirk behind my pout

in case we accidentally wake the natives

but they'll all rise up in adulation

come the evening's culmination

songs of our collective nation bleeding from their brows

be you country, folk, or rock,

here's your place to turn the clock

set it back to midweek in massassippi

and iíll still make time to get my kicks in

shifting eyes like richard nixon

reapprised of all his tricks and dreaming up my own

till the keepers of the stock save the cheddar from the crock

give it up for midweek in massassippi