Verse 1
I’m a Painting Box; my friend is Mr. Green,
He’s the King of color land the greenest in his scene.
His subjects they all bow to him, he says just what he means
His favorite food in the world is obviously the bean.
Verse 2
In the Painting Box Green’s neighbor’s kind of blue,
His wife is somewhat regal and his son is baby blue
He Likes to draw with pastels but only if they’re new
Is excellent in landscape art in all its many hues
Verse 3
In a Painting Box Blues neighbor he's called red
He has a shock of hair and he likes to read in bed
His elements are awesome but often it’s been said
He’s fire to painting, streaks of crimson in his head
Chorus
The colors of this painting box are the colors of the world
Each one has a season. And a story to be told
We’re coat of many colors, and a palette full of dreams
We’re the colors of the world, we must be green
Verse 4
Complex in our color schemes, we’re not quite what we seem,
We’re blue and grey we mix all day, we’re red and black and green
The Painter adds a dash of brown, and mixes it with blue
A Painting Box will help you mix a rainbow colored stew.
Chorus
The colors of this painting box are the colors of the world
Each one has a reason. And a story to be told
We’re coat of many colors, and a palette full of dreams
We’re the colors of the world, we must be green
We’re the colors of the world, we must be green
We’re the colors of the world, we must be green

© The Battersby Duo. All rights reserved.

I don’t like clams
It’s just the way I am
I think they stink
When you put ‘em in the sink
And if you think
You can make me eat ‘em now
Well, you’re wrong; I’ll put ‘em in my pocket
And I’ll feed ‘em to a cow

I don’t like peas
‘Cause they make me sneeze
I’ll spit them out
If you put ‘em in my mouth
What I like to do
With my peas instead
I like to load ‘em in my straw and shoot ‘em out
And try to hit you in the head

But I like spaghetti
It doesn’t make me sick
I like spaghetti
‘Cause when I throw it it’ll stick
I like spaghetti
All mixed into a glop
I like spaghetti with catsup and mustard
And a cherry on the top

I don’t like fish
When they leave the eyeballs in the dish
I look and see
My dinner looking back at me
And if I try
To stab it with my fork
I’m afraid it might flip around and flop around
And land on the floor
Chorus

© Linda Severt. All rights reserved.

Went to town the other night,
I hear the noise, then saw the fight,
The watchman was a-running round,
Crying “Old Dan Tucker’s come to town.”
Old Dan Tucker’s back in town,
Swinging the ladies, all around;
First to the right, and then to the left;
Then kiss the gal that he loves best.

(chorus)
Get out of the way! Get out of the way!
Get out of the way! Old Dan Tucker,
You’re too late to come to supper.

Dan began early in his life,
To play the banjo to win a wife,
But every time he’d company keep,
He’d play himself fast asleep.
Old Dan Tucker was a fine old man,
He washed his face in the frying pan,
He combed his hair with a wagon wheel,
And died of a toothache in his heel.

(chorus)

Old Dan Tucker came to town,
A-riding a goat, and leading a hound,
The hound gave a howl, and the goat gave a jump,
And threw Dan Tucker a-top a stump.
I went to meetin’ the other day,
To hear old Tucker preach and pray,
They all got the spirit, but me alone,
I make ole Tucker walk jawbone.

(chorus)

When old Dan Tucker passed away,
They missed the music he used to play,
They carried him on his last long ride,
And buried his banjo at his side.

(chorus)

© Dale Cockrell. All rights reserved.

Wild rov’d an Indian girl, bright Alfarata,
Where sweep the waters of the blue Juniata.
Swift as an antelope, through the forest going,
Loose were her jetty locks in wavy tresses flowing.

Gay was the mountain song of bright Alfarata,
Where sweep the waters of the blue Juniata.
Strong and true my arrows are in my painted quiver,
Swift goes my light canoe on down the rapid river.

Bold is my warrior good, the love of Alfarata,
Proud waves his snowy plume along the Juniata.
Soft and low he speaks to me, then his war-cry sounding,
Rings his voice in thunder loud, from height to height resounding.

So sang the Indian girl, bright Alfarata,
Where sweep the waters of the blue Juniata.
Fleeting years have borne away the voice of Alfarata,
Still sweeps the river on, the blue Juniata.

© Dale Cockrell. All rights reserved.