joshwriting | The Speculator

I want one.

The Speculator
Lyrics by Peter Berryman; Music by Lou Berryman, Lou & Peter
Berryman Music BMI
www.louandpeter.com

We're never ever bored when we're ridin' in the Ford
Cause we have a Speculator on the dash
It doesn't pay the bills or assist you on the hills
And it isn't gonna save you if you crash
But when you pass a dairy now and then
And find that you are wondering again
What's that little shack by the barn around the back
You can turn the Speculator up to ten

Could it be a shed where the farmer keeps a bed
For the guy who comes to help him with the cows
Betcha it's a shop with a grinder and a strop
For the day they have to sharpen up the plows
A shanty for the pluckin' of the duck
Or where they turn the cattle into chuck
Or where they find the mule when it's time to go to school
And the farmer's havin' trouble with the truck

Nothin' really like a jalopy on the pike
With the rattle of the window in the door
With the whining of the wheels and the radio schpiels
And the clatter of the clutter on the floor
Then we hear a chuckle from the hood
Somethin' isn't workin' like it should
We may have to walk, but judgin' from the talk
The Speculator's workin' pretty good

Maybe it's the link from the pedal on the blink
Comin' off enough to wiggle and to clunk
Maybe it's the choke or the heating oil broke
Or there's someone entertaining in the trunk
Maybe it's a carburetor fire burning insulation off a wire
I thinka chunka rust coulda twisted in a gust
And be rubbin' on the rubber of the tire

When you're on the plains in the Colorado rains
Or you're drivin' to Bimidgi in the snow
When you're headed North from Chicago on the Fourth
And a Winnebego's holdin' up the snow
Conversation godalmitey dull absolutely 0 in the skull
You can drive to the equator if you have a Speculator
And you turn it on whenever there's a lull

‘Zat a chip of wood in the middle of the hood
Or a chicken enchilada for an elf
Maybe it's a gob from the chin of Uncle Bob
Who is not a man to keep it to himself
Maybe it's a serviette for birds a glossary of ittybitty words
Maybe it's a tuffet where a hurried little muffet
Lost her whey when she was leavin' with the curds

When you're nearly hit by a yuppie little twit
With his godforsaken noggin on the phone
Swervin' in your lane goin' ninety in the rain
In a cloud of Amaretto and cologne
You feel the anger in you go to work
Maybe now's the time to go berserk
Before you pop a vessel let the Speculator wrestle
With another way of lookin' at the jerk

Maybe he's a shrink with a patient on the brink
And he's rushing there while trying to talk him down
Maybe he's aware there's a toxin in the air
And he's off to warn the people of the town
Someone in the family could be sick
His daughter hit his mother with a brick
His dog has got the rabies or his wife is havin' babies
Though the odds are in your favor he's a prick

I do enjoy this tune.