Editing Floor Blues

    I was born in the West-End
    In the summer of ’48
    Above a small Cafe
    Some people liked to come there and call it night
    But for me it was all day
    Oh! Now the dogs keep a-growlin’
    Round my front door
    And the Truth howled out from the editing floor

    Years went by
    Quarrymen came along
    This boy became a star
    Then he dropped – but got up again
    With a Black Everly guitar
    Then he searched along the road
    A good song he was looking for
    And the Truth sang out from the editing floor

    Big brother took a trip
    As bold as he could be
    To the place, he heard,
    Where the good Prophets used to walk
    High above this dark world
    Then the Word came down
    And the little brother saw
    How the Truth was buried on the editing floor

    One day the papers rang us up,
    T’check if I said this?
    I said, “Oh boy!
    I’d never say that!”
    Then we got down to the truth of it
    But they never printed that!
    Just like Socrates, the man from Greece
    Fell down on his knees
    Said, Lord! Forgive them please
    Forgive them please
    And he spoke no more
    And the cup spilled out on the editing floor