This is the only song on this album whose lyrics I did not write. Who did? My Mom! My mother, Edna Mae Brown-Cilwa, was quite an accomplished and published poet back in the day. When going through the old papers, I found this ode to an annoying bird that I felt needed to be arranged like a Joni Mitchell tune.

A whippoorwill upon a hill
At twilight makes me dreamy.
But a whippoorwill when all is still
At dawning makes me screamy!

If Papa will but whip poor Will
And not make Mama do it,
I think that I—at least I'd try—
Could calmly sleep right through it.

But as the sun proves day's begun
That birdie starts to chatter.
It frightens me. What can it be?
Whatever is the matter?

If Will's been bad, I think his Dad
Would settle him, and not
Cry "Whip poor Will!" from our back hill
With all the lungs he's got.

Perhaps it's so he doesn't know
How unpaternal he
Would make one think that throaty gink
Must very surely be.

For if he did, he'd take that kid
Called Willie, and he'd spank it,
And let me sleep as sunbeams creep
My head above the blanket!