HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO PITTSBURGH
Happy Birthday to Pittsburgh, 250 years old,
The gateway to the heartland, where the three rivers flow.
To the north hills and the south hills, to the east and west end.
Happy birthday to Pittsburgh, from your family and friends.
To Guyusuta,, Shingas, the Shawnee, Lenape,
The prophet, Neolin, Tecumsah and Pontiac,
To Queen Aliquippa, Red Pole on down,
All the spirits of your sacred burial ground!
Happy Birthday to Pittsburgh, 250 years old,
To the natives and warriors, land keepers long ago.
To the people of the hillltops, ridges, valleys, ravines.
Happy birthday to Pittsburgh, from your family and friends.
To the vanguard of the first State to abolish slavery;
To Vashon, Delaney, the souls of black bravery.
To the thousands who blocked the cannons from moving down south,
When the flames of succession broke out!
Happy birthday to Pittsburgh, 250 years old,
To the civil rights heroes, so courageous and bold.
To the North Side and South side, the to the east and west ends;
Happy birthday to Pittsburgh, from your family and friends.
To the thinkers, Tom the Tinkers, all the young pioneers;
The whiskey rebel farmers, the anti-tax mutineers;
To the shakers, path breakers, food banks of history,
All the givers like Johnny Appleseed!
Happy birthday to Pittsburgh, 250 years old,
To the mentors and inventors, whose glory you hold;
To the people of the hilltops, ridges, valleys and runs,
Happy birthday to Pittsburgh, your story‘s not done.
To the hardworking mothers, the famous women you’ve known;
The cotton mill rebels, Fannie, Crystal, Mother Jones.
To Jane Grey Swisshelm, Lizzie Butler, Nellie Bly,
The countless women who held up half your sky!
Happy birthday to Pittsburgh, 250 years old,
To all the hard working sisters, whose story needs told.
To the North Hills and South Hills, to the east and west end,
Happy birthday to Pittsburgh, from your family and friends.
To the millions who worked in your factories and mills,
The ghosts of their labor are living there still.
To the steel, glass and trades who built all you can see,
The caretakers of the Burgh’s history!
Happy Birthday to Pittsburgh, 250 years old,
To the hard working people who gave their blood, sweat and soul.
To the North Side and South Side, to the east and west end,
Happy Birthday to Pittsburgh, good to see you again.
To the dislocated workers, black and gold refugees,
Far and near frontier clubs of the Steeler family;
To the ones who will tell you when all’s said and heard,
There’s no place like the ‘Burgh!
Happy birthday to Pittsburgh, 250 years old,
From the throngs of ‘Steeler Nation’ spread all over the globe;
From the hard working people, and their families too,
Happy Birthday to Pittsburgh, happy birthday to you.
Words & Music by: C. Michael Stout, March, 2008
PEOPLE GONNA RISE AGAIN
Out of chaos, confusion, bloody reigns of recklessness, asylums of hatred and fear;
From the cells of disillusion, crowded jails of hopelessness, prisons of the war profiteers;
At the end of the rope, the darkest hour; in the face of superior fire power;
Holding on the reins, riding on the winds of change – PEOPLE GONNA RISE AGAIN.
From desolation rows and barren isolation holes, bottoms where the nobodies dwell,
From the gutters and cracks and wrong side of the tracks, Sodoms and Gomorrahs of Hell;
Like a red sun blazin’ on a misty mornin’, a storm that forms without warnin’,
A breath of fresh air will come out of nowhere – PEOPLE GONNA RISE AGAIN.
From the rust bowls and dust bowls and refugee camps, gulags of the global machine;
From the sweatshops and cell blocks and slavery ramps, dregs of the free market latrine;
With the blood that ran through native warriors of old, spirits that raged so many ages ago,
A super-heart will beat in the face of defeat – PEOPLE GONNA RISE AGAIN.
When the big cities lay in ruins, the gardens of eden are drained;
Out of the debris and the sea of apathy, seeds of a new world will spring.
When the big bomb’s been dropped, the ego’s little world’s been rocked, pillars of the system all fall;
When things get much worst, and Babylon has burst, your money’s worth nothing at all.
When it looks like love’s been suffocated, faith and hope eradicated,
Out of the demise, right before your eyes – PEOPLE GONNA RISE AGAIN
Words & Music by: Mike Stout, February, 2008
WHEN THE HEYDAY WAS HERE
In the twilight of a moment, of a neon time gone,
When fire sparks were stars, dust and smoke were the dawn,
When the streets were clogged with people, and the jobs were plenty.
Reckless and abandoned, we were standin’ brave and tall,
Mesmerized by the lies that said we’d never fall,
And that our plates and our expectations would never be empty.
Outside the iron walls of the pewter citadel,
Marching through the halls, hearts and ranks would swell,
As we sang about ideas we thought would always be spoken.
Standin’ like a trump card, in a game as real as life,
Runnin’ with the vanguard who thought they’d never die,
And that the spirit and the oneness of our circle could never be broken.
And the tribes came together back then,
When the bottom rose up to the brim,
And the way was so crystal clear.
Oh they can never take back what we had,
Or take back the dues that we paid,
Or bury the history we made – WHEN THE HEYDAY WAS HERE.
You talk about gangs, we really had one,
We flew every color there was under the sun;
When one of us was messed with, the others were right by their side.
Out voices and our visions cracked the silence of deceipt,
Or pens broke traditions so the powerless could speak
Unholy truths and views that for so long had to run away and hide.
And though time shattered our dream,
And the pendulum did certainly swing
Back to before the red skies appeared,
They can never take back what we gave,
Or cover up the roads that we paved,
Or bury the heroes we made – WHEN THE HEYDAY WAS HERE.
We were feeling our oats, rocking their boats,
Shaking the foundations unheard.
And after every battle, we’d party and laugh,
Drinking and smoking at the bash,
Our comraderie was more than just words.
You know some say it was a waste of time, that we barely made a dent,
That we lost the war when they closed the door, and we were so naïve and innocent;
And that the wheels of age had simply turned the page once again.
But as I stare out at the ashes of the ruins of the past,
Past the malls and clashes, before the die was cast,
When ‘democracy from below’ was more than just a means to an end.
And though the floor gave way underneath,
Power eluded our reach,
Our pictures might be buried for years;
They can never retract what we meant.
They can never hide the places we went,
Or smother the message we sent – WHEN THE HEYDAY WAS HERE.
MARTIN DELANEY
Martin Delaney was a knight for human rights,
An abolitionist warrior in the anti-slavery fight.
He ran the underground railroad in the shadows of Fort Pitt,
An African-American to be reckoned with.
A doctor, a writer, an organizer of slaves,
A man way ahead of his days.
A black beacon light blazing the dawn,
Martin Delaney your cause carries on.
At the age of nineteen, he settled on the Hill
Near St. Benedict the Moor, a place called Aurthurville.
“The Mystery” newspaper was his weapon of choice,
The only one in the Burgh that gave the black slave a voice.
On the breeze of resistance, on the winds of liberty,
He would settle for only total equality.
He lived several lifetimes all rolled into one.
Martin Delaney, your cause carries on.
In 1850, the masters up the attack,
Passed a new law, the “Fugitive Slave Act.”
Said they would round up both runaway and free.
At a Market Street House rally, Martin got up to speak.
He said, ‘my home is a castle for me, my children and wife,
‘I’ll defend it if I have to take a life.
‘It could be the President of the United States,
‘If he crosses that line he will meet the same fate.’
He continued the fight for the rest of his life,
Helping John Brown, Frederick Douglas by his side.
And when the civil war broke out, he didn’t run and hide;
He became the first black officer to join the union’s side.
On the breeze of resistance, on the winds of liberty,
He would settle for only total equality.
He lived several lifetimes all rolled into one.
Martin Delaney, your cause carries on.
Martin Delaney, your cause carries on.
Words & Music by: C. Michael Stout, February, 2008
WHEN THE COTTON MILL WOMEN ROSE
In the cotton mills of Pittsburgh, PA,
Back at the dawn of the industrial age,
Young women and girls all workin’ like slaves,
For forty cents a day in a factory cage.
On the banks of the Allegheny, for half the pay of men,
Never getting’ home at night before nine or ten,
It was boomtown times for the capitalist class,
Buttermilk and sauerkraut for the poor working lass.
So in 1843 they marched in the street
For two dollars a day and a plate of roast beef.
In fancy dresses disturbing the peace,
It was justice for all and for each
WHEN THE COTTON MILL WOMEN ROSE.
For twelve hours a day, six days a week,
Sweat and toil in the steam and dirty heat,
Tied to a mean, unforgiving machine,
Spinners and weavers in a land of broken dreams.
The machines set the pace, technology ruled;
Inside the workplace they were driven like a mule.
Constant repetition for the delicate hands;
Brutal exploitation, it was time to take a stand.
So in 1845 they went out on strike,
5,000 strong with their men at their side.
Hauling out the scabs at the battle of Blackstock,
For the ten-hour day the ‘Burgh rocked –
WHEN THE COTTON MILL WOMEN ROSE.
Cotton mill women, cotton girls,
It shook the whole industrial world –
WHEN THE COTTON MILL WOMEN ROSE.
Then they got a law passed for the ten-hour day,
But it had a loophole, and they kept cuttin’ their pay.
Then the bosses locked them out, said they couldn’t come back,
Till they signed away their rights with a personal contract.
At the Market Street House, a town meeting was held;
Speaker after speaker said it’s time to rebel.
This young Kentucky girl they called ‘The Unknown,’
Led the women the newspapers called ‘The Amazons.’
So in 1848 with axes in their hands,
They stormed the mills gates, took a militant stand.
Drivin’ out the scabs, fightin’ for their fair share,
A blow was struck for workers everywhere –
WHEN THE COTTON MILLWOMEN ROSE.
Cotton mill women, cotton girls,
It shook the whole industrial world –
WHEN THE COTTON MILL WOMEN ROSE.
BLOOD ON THE ROCKS
Down in Mckees Rocks back in 1909,
Employment was soaring on the assembly lines.
The biggest company was a place called the Pressed Steel Car,
With 6,000 workers and a boss who ruled the plant just like a Czar.
Immigrants were pouring in from every place,
To do the dirtiest jobs for the lowest of pay.
Kind of like the same situation you got here today.
They called the place the “Last Chance,” the “Slaughterhouse.”
Every day you went to work, you didn’t know if you were comin’ back out.
The speedup and abuse was more than any man could stand,
With kickbacks to the foremen, and mass extortion at the plant.
Exploited, persecuted, treated worse than a dog;
Told to sell their wives if they wanna keep their job.
Then forty Riveters walked off, sick of being robbed.
Sixteen different nationalities, sixteen different tongues,
Walked off the line in solidarity, stood up together as one.
Fightin’ in the streets and slums of ‘Hunkeyville,’ meetin’ up on Indian Mound.
The Company knew they had to break their will; they brought the Cossacks to town -
THERE WAS BLOOD ON THE ROCKS.
They brought in the Guard, strikebreakers, storm troopers and thugs.
Armed to the teeth, boss Hoffstot was clearly out for blood.
Meanwhile the town called ‘Hunkeyville’ was surrounded and attacked.
The strikers and their families were evicted from the Company shacks.
Then on ‘Bloody Sunday,’ in the shadow of the mill,
The Cossacks opened fire, nine workers were killed.
The IWW came to town; the strikers wouldn’t yield -
THERE WAS BLOOD ON THE ROCKS.
Then the Company caved in, the workers thought they had won;
They marched back into the plant all proud, together as one.
But behind the scenes a ‘divide and conquer’ scheme was hatched.
The owners bought off the native-born and counter-attacked.
And when the bosses reneged on every promise they made,
The immigrants walked back out, the native-born stayed.
The lesson of unity, buried in the cracks of history.
Sixteen different nationalities, sixteen different tongues,
Rising up in solidarity, standing together as one.
For two months long,
Holding on strong, in the streets, on the pickets lines and docks.
The immigrants knew
Just what they had to do; when they talked the talk and walked the walk -
THERE WAS BLOOD ON THE ROCKS.
Words & Music by: C. Michael Stout, February, 2008
CRYSTAL EASTMAN
Crystal Eastman was a warrior of yore,
Mover and shaker, path breaker for sure.
Voice for the victims of the captains of wealth,
The mother of all workplace safety and health.
[Chorus] Oh, Crystal Eastman, your spirit’s alive and risin,’
Crystal Eastman, your name will never die.
Sister Eastman, your cause is alive and thrivin,’
Crystal Eastman, your name will never die.
She took her pen to the mills and factories of hell,
Shined a light where the dead and injured fell.
Wastelands of pain and injustice she saw;
She wrote the first workers’ compensation law. [Chorus]
Courageous, audacious, always on the front lines,
Hell-raiser, trail-blazer, way ahead of her time.
She led the fight to right so many wrongs;
Charming, disarming, so beautiful and strong. [Chorus]
Organizer, rebel-rouser, brilliant and wise,
Her words were music, there was fire in her eyes.
She sowed the seeds, co-wrote and paved the way
For the ACLU and the ERA. [Chorus]
She fought for women’s rights and equal pay overdue,
Said, “Mothers raisin’ kids are working people too.”
Her life was a torch that burned for liberty;
A symbol of the free women to be. [Chorus]
Code-pink resister to the robber baron’s wars,
Outspoken sister for the peace and freedom force.
She was black-balled, and dragged through the mud,
But in the end they couldn’t bury her love
Oh Crystal Eastman, your spirit’s alive and risin,’
Crystal Eastman, your name will never die.
Crystal Eastman, the time has arrived
To tell the world about the love that you gave,
The families and the lives that you saved.
Crystal Eastman, she fought for peace and
Crystal Eastman, she fought the beastman.
Hail Crystal Eastman, Hail Crystal Eastman, Hail Crystal Eastman.
Words & Music by: Mike Stout, 2006
HOMESTEAD TOWN
Homestead Town, Homestead Town, used to be the story of a glory boom town.
Homestead Town, Homestead Town, when the mill was there and steelworkers were around.
Pilgrims came and settled to work a pot of gold,
From the iron in the fire in the days of old.
A place full of churches and watering holes;
A boilermaker and Jesus to sooth your soul.
Homestead Town, Homestead Town, used to be the story of a glory boom town.
Homestead Town, Homestead Town, when the mill was there and the smoke was all around.
Road signs pointing to you from everywhere;
You were the forge of the universe, the belly of the bear.
Streets full of people in the middle of the night;
Days gray and dark when the furnace was alive.
Homestead Town, Homestead Town, used to be the story of a glory boom town.
Homestead Town, Homestead Town, when the mill was there and the work was all around.
From the top of Hunkey Hill down to First Avenue,
Everybody had the good jobs that you knew.
Men and women making steel, working overtime,
To win the big wars from behind the line.
Homestead Town, Homestead Town, used to be the story of a glory boom town.
Homestead Town, Homestead Town, when the mill was there and the union was around.
Taking on Pinkertons, Frick and Carnegie,
Capturing a moment that was making history.
Workers at the end trying to keep the place alive;
Preachers of the faith in the middle of the fight.
Homestead Town, Homestead Town, used to be the story of a glory boom town.
Homestead Town, Homestead Town, when the mill was there and Big steel still arouned.
History gone with the hole in the wall,
Buildings sitting empty in the shadow of the mall.
Spirits of the workers lingering below,
Destiny asleep where the whistle once blowed.
Homestead Town, Homestead Town, used to be the story of a glory boom town.
Homestead Town, Homestead Town, used to be the story of a glory boom town.
Words & music by: Mike Stout, July, 1992
FANNIE SELLINS
In labor’s glorious history was many a union maid
Who stood up to the bosses, so staunch and unafraid.
Molly Jackson, Mother Jones fought for a brighter way.
But let’s sing of Fannie Sellins, and remember her today.
All over Pennsylvania Fannie spread the Union word.
In the coalfields and the company towns her voice of hope was heard:
“United we will bargain, but divided we will beg.”
Fannie Sellins spread the dreams of the UMWA.
[Chorus] A widow with four children, toiling eighty hours a week
Found time to fight injustice and bring power to the meek.
She lived with tireless energy, no duty would she shirk.
Though murderers cut short her life, we carry on her work.
In the company slums of Ducktown in the summer of nineteen,
An unarmed striking miner was gunned down by deputies.
When Fannie cried out, “Spare his life!” They shot her down as well.
And hundreds watched in horror as this fearless woman fell.
Now the ones who gave the orders faced no charge of any sort.
And the men who pulled the triggers were acquitted by the court.
But when companies own the courthouse, justice fails for you and me.
So let’s work like Fannie Sellins now for true equality. [Chorus]
Words & Music by: Anne Feeney
The Boxer and the Blonde
Billy Conn was a boxer, on the road of destiny.
A Celtic god fighter, an Irish easy rider, he hailed from ‘SLiberty.
He learned to fight in brick alleys, in the Carbarn he plied his trade;
With a hard left hook, movie-idol looks, clearly a man self-made.
He started out young, on the bottom rung, a gopher boy for Jawnie Ray.
With hard work and luck, he worked his way up to the heavyweight.
The summer home of Greenfield Jimmy, is where he first met Mary Louise.
Every teen‘s dream, a real beauty queen, she had Billy down on his knees.
Greenfield Jimmy did not know the two of them fell in love.
He’d always say, “there ain’t no way my daughter’s gonna marry a pug.”
Stealin’ away to some out of town place, tellin’ daddy sweet little lies.
Dancin’ back then, at the William Penn, starin’ into each other’s eyes -
A real life story from our working class history,
The best it had been and the best it would ever be.
The mills and the Burgh were on top of the world;
The handsomest boy loved the prettiest girl.
Their time’s come and gone, but the legend of their love lives on - THE BOXER AND THE BLONDE.
Mary Louise got sent off to school, Billie learned to ply his trade.
Knock out or brawl, he whipped ‘em all, the best of the heavyweights.
He said, “bring on the brown bomber,” he’s the only one left to beat.
On the streetcar to the action, the Flying Fraction, there was never an empty seat.
Headin’ up to Gotham, havin’ fun on the Ham and Cabbage Special train.
Watchin’ Billy take ‘em down in the New York town, everybody yellin’ his name.
When Conn fought Louis for the title, it was the hour for the flower of the Mon.
A Pirates game was stopped, you could hear a pin drop, every radio in town was on.
Billy had him down through the 12th round, victory was in his hands;
If he’d just stick and run, he had the fight won, he’d be the world heavyweight champ.
Instead of layin’ low, he tried a knockout blow, for his mother and Mary Louise.
With two seconds left, Louis hit him with his best; put Billie down on his knees.
The boxer and the blonde got married, the rematch with Louis was set.
When he heard they wed, Greenfield Jimmy said he was ready to forgive and forget.
But later on him and Conn got into a fight, Billy hit Jimmy’s skull dead on.
He broke his hand, and though he fought again, his time had come and gone.
Thinkin’ about the past, him and Mary would laugh, sayin’ “those were the days.”
Out with his gal, or just hangin’ with his pals, he was the toast of this place.
A real life story from our working class history,
The best it had been and the best it would ever be.
The mills and the Burgh were on top of the world;
The handsomest boy loved the prettiest girl.
The ’ve both come and gone the legend of their love lives on - THE BOXER AND THE BLONDE.
Words & Music by: Mike Stout, March, 2008
FIGHTER WITH A HEART
I saw his picture, he was frozen in time.
He was a fixture, out on the picket line.
At HJ Heinz, A&P and little steel,
Holding his signs, calling for a New Deal.
Labor’s apostle, a born and bred activist.
Poor man’s disciple, his pen was his fist.
A voice for the forgotten inside the prison walls;
Down at the bottom on the sick and hungry he’d call.
A rebel spirit, a Danny-boy who sang his part,
A freedom writer, a fighter with a heart from the start –
I saw him marchin’ with Martin Luther King.
They were arm and arm in-side a field of dreams.
Marchin’ for the left out, against all the prejudicial laws.
He didn’t care about whose toes he stepped on.
I saw him standin’ against the Vietnam war.
He was demandin’ peace and justice and more.
Used his Church and collar to give the protesters cover.
Pray or holler, he said ‘the enemy’s my brother.’
A rebel spirit, he’d upset the applecart,
A freedom writer, a fighter with a heart from the start –
I saw his picture up on the altar of his lord.
He was a fixture for seven decades or more.
Takin’ all the heat with a smile on his face;
You could hear his heart beat for the whole human race.
A rebel spirit, a warrior who knew his part,
A freedom writer, a fighter with a heart from the start –
He was a fighter, a fighter with a heart.
A mighty fighter, with a great big heart;
A mighty fighter, with so much heart,
He was a fighter with a heart.
Words & music by: Mike Stout, 2004
CAPTAIN SEAN
Captain Sean was a working man, steamfitter by trade.
A young apprentice in the prime of his time, on the way to self-made.
On a journey like his daddy before, his cousin, John Rogers by his side.
With no idea of the future in store, his sights on the great divide.
He was just another man in the land of hopes and dreams,
With his work gloves, boots, long-sleeve denim shirt and blue jeans.
Full of promise and hope, Sean got on a boat, he was looking to be one of a team.
He was ready to go, Captain Sean did row.
On just the third day on the job, a gas leak in the middle school.
A wall of flames shootin’ out of a valve, they lacked the proper safety tools.
With his skin on fire as time stood still, he screamed with all his breath.
He bolted for the door just ahead of the kill, one exhale from his death.
The only thing he remembers was the screams that came from inside.
At the time he didn’t know his role model, friend and cousin had died.
They put him ice and they doused the flames. They medics and the ambulance came.
Some were prayin’ as they took Captain Sean away.
In the burn unit he could smell his own flesh as they scrambled to save his life.
His eyes swelled shut, the pain drivin’ him nuts, they read him his last rites.
For eight long weeks he defied the odds, cheatin’ death at every turn.
And when he saw his face he cursed his God for his body so badly burned.
With no emotion left was the death that was swirling around;
He thought it was the end as his world came crashing down.
But then a nurse said, “Sean, you should have been dead; it’s a miracle you’re still around
You’re struggle’s just begun.” So Captain Sean moved on.
With his freedom of choice taken away, the future looked a wreck.
Inside a mask, with no identity or past, he lost all his self-respect.
He left his home and city, consumed in self-pity, a bolder on his shoulder sat.
A half a million miles of drinkin’ and drugs, fightin’ anyone his eyes met.
He took his family and his friends on a ride through his own little hell;
Nothin’ gave him refuge from the emptiness he felt.
But then one day as he gazed away and stared at the cards he was dealt,
The nightmare broke; Captain Sean awoke.
It was late one night in the flash of a light when his life took a different track.
The person in the mirror got a whole lot clearer, said it’s time to give something back.
Without a word spoken, the door flew open; he saw something bigger than him.
From deep in his heart, he felt like the parts had all come together again.
Underneath the fear, the veneer of his damaged skin,
He saw the beauty and the duty that was truly inside of him.
Then all the nitty-gritty and the self-imposed pity disappeared into the wind.
And just like that, Captain Sean was back.
These days Captain Sean works and spends his time showing others where he went.
Telling his story with all the pain and the glory, the journey from his accident.
Proud to be alive and how he survived and rose fro the clutches of hell.
If he can just save one from the injury gun, he knows that he’s done well.
He’ll be talkin’ up the union and the history and the victories its won;
Proud to be a steamfitter, not a quitter in the battles to come.
One of the hard-luck cases, he wouldn’t trade places with you, me or anyone
And that’s a fact; Captain Sean is back.
Words & Music by: Mike Stout, 2006
I CAN NEVER GET TO SLEEP AT NIGHT
I can never get to sleep at night, I’m so awake and alive.
I toss and turn until daylight, till the sun does arrive.
Like the workers on the graveyard shift, like the street-light till dawn,
Like a flame that ain’t never finished, my candle keeps burnin’ on.
On know in Tokyo they’re up and awake, the sun is shining elsewhere;
I’m over here and they’re over there, and I am alone, I am alone.
I could never get to sleep at night, even as a little child.
I had to do my daydreamin’ after midnight; my mind was runnin’ wild.
Like a bat, like a harmless vampire, like a night owl that hoots,
I couldn’t fade, I couldn’t put out the fire, I could never seem to snooze.
Though my body laid still in a trance, lookin’ like I was dead,
My heart and soul would continue to dance in my head, in my head.
I couldn’t get to sleep last night, even though my lover was here.
She wrapped her arms and legs around me so tight, made my tension disappear.
We made love with abandon again; she thought she spent my energy.
But when she fell off to sleep at the end, I was still runnin’ free.
You’d think the sleepless nights would take their toll, wear me down once in awhile;
Instead the passion just continues to roll in my soul, inside my soul.
I can never get to sleep at night, I’m so awake and alive.
I toss and turn until daylight, till the sun does arrive.
Like the worker on the graveyard shift, like the street light till dawn,
Like a flame that ain’t never finished, my candle keeps burnin’ on and on.
I can never sleep at night, I can never sleep at night, I can never get to sleep at night.
Words & music by: Mike Stout, 1992