From the recording The Crawlspace Tapes
A folk song about the perils of copyright infringement.
THE BALLAD OF LIBBY CONGRISS
Greg Trafidlo and Neal Phillips
In the spring of '29
A cabin porch in Caroline
Libby Congriss' sang so loud and shrill
And the cackle of her voice still makes me ill.
She wrote the music and the words
'Bout wildwood flowers and mockingbirds
All that stuff you're not supposed to kill
When she hovers 'round the stage it gives me chills
I see her ghost /in the lonesome valleys,
From Music Row/ to Tin Pan Alley
She'll walks these hills/ on dark and stormy nights
'Cause I'm the creep* who stole her copyrights'
Came up to her mountain home
'Tape recorder and microphone
'Said "pretty maid, sing your tunes for me"
I'll save your songs for all posterity
I headed back to Bristol town
And there I passed her songs around
Sang her lines with no thought of permission
'Said I found them in the mountains,
"They're tradition (al)
Repeat Chorus:* (Jerk )
She took sick and passed away
Her songs grew famous anyway
And I'm a star on the Grand Ol' Op-er-y
And no one knows who wrote those tunes but me.
I pray to those in music heaven
For all my sins to be forgiven
'Cause Libby's like a bloodhound on my trail
Chasing me in her dirty long black veil
Repeat Chorus *(putz!)