(((LISTEN )))

We heard from our good friend Mike Feder on his new program at progressive radio network, Occupied Territory, recorded in New York City. I read an article from Wonkette.com from yesterday about the DC shooter, sounds from occupy Wall Street this morning, and some earlier explosions from Oakland, where a second vet was brutalized by Oakland storm troopers. Phish played Chalkdust Torture, "can I live while I'm young?

"This Boy" was sung by the Beatles and deeply enjoyed by none other than Penn State's own Sandusky, horsing around with Bob Costas.

The hysterical Herman Cain Phone call was from The Jimmy Dore Show, slap slap slapping out of Pacifica radio in LA. Unwelcome Guest by Billy Bragg and Wilco, before that some Jefferson Airplane.

Unwelcome Guest: Lyric by Woody Guthrie, music by Billy Bragg

To the rich man's bright lodges I ride in this wind
On my good horse I call you my shiny Black Bess
To the playhouse of fortune
to take the bright silver
And gold you have taken from somebody else

As we go riding in the damp foggy midnight
You snort, my good pony, and you give me your best
For you know, and I know, good horse,
'mongst the rich ones
How oftimes we go there an unwelcome guest

I've never took food from the widows and orphans
And never a hard working man I oppressed
So take your pace easy,
for home soon like lightning
We soon will be riding, my shiny Black Bess

No fat rich man's pony can e'er overtake you
And there's not a rider from the east to the west
Could hold you a light
in this dark mist and midnight
When the potbellied thieves
chase their unwelcome guest

I don't know, good horse,
as we trot in this dark here
if robbing the rich is for worse or for best
They take it by stealing and lying and gambling
And I take it my way, my shiny Black Bess

I treat horses good and I'm friendly to strangers
I ride and your running makes my guns talk the best
And the rangers and deputies
are hired by the rich man
To catch me and hang me, my shining Black Bess

Yes, they'll catch me napping one day
and they'll kill me
And then I'll be gone but that won't be my end
For my guns and my saddle will always be filled
By unwelcome travellers and other brave men

And they'll take the money and spread it out equal
Just like the Bible and the prophets suggest
But the men that go riding to help these poor workers
The rich will cut down like an unwelcome guest

WORDS: Woody Guthrie 1940 - MUSIC: Billy Bragg