Coconut Telegraph

Song from a chapter, of the same name, in my book - Tales from Mananaville (on Amazon). Coconut Telegraph I heard Jimmy sing it back in ’81… Thought he was kiddin’… Turns out he was writing a field manual. I heard Jimmy sing it back in ’81, Swore he wasn’t dealin’ gossip, no sir, none. But if he’d landed here in Mazatlán, He’d have needed more prose and another bottle of rum. ’Cause the jungle drums got Wi-Fi now, And the truth wears sandals, flip-flops and claws, What starts as “Did you hear…?” by sunset Ends up enshrined as telegraph law. They lean in close like it’s sacred text, Over purified ice and filtered lies, With talons polished at the estetica And judgment flickering in their eyes. You can hear it on the Coconut Telegraph, Can’t keep nothin’ under wraps, Vodka tongues and vulture wings Circle condos, bars, while judgement laps. You can hear it on the Coconut Telegraph, Hypocrisy - five torches on tap, Saints by noon, inquisitors by five, With margaritas in the gap. Twenty-six emails, seventeen texts, “See? It’s right here—so it’s true,” Never mind the source was half-lit, Bitter, bored, and compassion overdue. Sex lives, beds, supposed ex-lovers Served up like casualties with a smile, Funny how the loudest moralists Maybe been cheatin’ all the while. They don’t call it gossip—no, no, dear— They call it kindly “concerned review,” But the claws come out when the sun goes down And the unwary prey comes into view. You can hear it on the Coconut Telegraph, Sayin’ who did this and that, Who’s too old, who’s too young, Who’s pretendin’ they have no past. You can hear it on the Coconut Telegraph, Truth diced thin with brass and sass, Run it through stacks of happy hours And fiction gets a pass. I didn’t come down here to be recognized Or crucified at happy hour, Didn’t know I’d trade one small-town church For a beachside rumor high-rise tower. They sip vilification over purified ice, Smile sweet through polished teeth, Circlin’ slow like beach-fed raptors Waitin’ for somethin’ unsuspecting to eat. The guys are in the pool talkin’ boats, Cars that went too fast to last, Fish they caught, books they read, And jokes about a checkered past. Nobody’s keepin’ score on secrets or sins, Nobody’s keepin’ notes or takin’ names, Guys don’t sport that well-word wicked grin Just ain’t playin’ that coconut telegraph game. You can hear it on the Coconut Telegraph, When the wires start hummin’ Friday night, When the rum breaks loose and the stories grow With every glistening glass in sight. You can hear it on the Coconut Telegraph, Lines hummin’ hot and fast, Everybody’s got an alibi And a stone they’re ready to cast. We’re in a small boat on a shallow sea, Too much weight will make her list, So maybe pass on the celebrations And drop the stress - open the fist. Yeah, put it on the Coconut Telegraph— But here’s a radical thought at last If it ain’t kind, or funny, or true… Let it die in your happy hour glass. Yeah… let die in your happy hour glass