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In a small town where all knew all, wandered a peasant lady nobody knew. But her only friend was a young boy, brought her hot tea and leftover stew. In those burning wintry Decembers, he’d pick dirty pennies up off the cold street. And while his mother was out Christmas shopping, he’d say, “Come on in, warm your feet. As long as you share with me stories.” So she spoke, “I’m a product of war. My mother never knew who she could be as my father lay drunk on the floor.” And she spoke of the cart that she wheeled. Had keys with no locks and guitars with no strings, and a puzzle that could never be finished. “This is my home, these broken things.” Ah, but the boy went on to be taught in the schools to not talk to strangers and “don’t feed the fools.” Grew older and further and of her, forgot, as she was forced to move from lot to lot to lot. She said, “I guess it was much in his nature to become an enforcer of law. My old friend’s got a gun to protect me from the rock-tossing drunks from the bars. Always seemed like the sort to help others, so I’ll find him while he’s on the beat and say, ‘Remember me, I’m the old lady. You’d give me pennies you’d find on the street.’” But when she found him, she saw not the young boy who dug for the roots of her junk. She came face to face with a stern vacant soldier, grinning and spinning a club. He said, “Don’t you know that you can’t be here? You’ll hurt business and scare away the kids. Go wander around in some other town. Get out, or I’m takin’ you in!” “But officer, I fondly remember you. Young boy who would give me the leftover stew. Would take me inside to the warm fire coals. And those hundreds of pennies bought me all these clothes. It’s against the law to peddle, it’s against the law to eat. It’s against the law to have nothing more than the shoes, full of holes, on your feet. And now they put bars across the park benches, so I guess it’s illegal to sleep. They buried something inside of you, officer, into your cold heart dig deep. And you’ll see that it’s me. And here I’ll be, nothing new to me. I’ll be heartbroken and cold, frozen and alone. My coffin was a dumpster and they didn’t even know.” But while out on the beat, he looked down to his feet, and he saw a dirty penny heads up on the street. And it made him think of an old tall tale of a woman who pushed ‘round a cart, and the boy who fed her and helped her. Knew he should have deep in his heart. Oh, where did he hear that old tall tale? But hey, what a story to spread. So he told it to his own growing boy once in a while before bed.


from Bacchanal 'N' Philadelphia, released February 2, 2016


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Mischief Brew Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Emerging from the undead ashes of PA punk troupe The Orphans, Mischief Brew started with a scratchy demo tape in 2000 and has since spread the good word of anarchy, hilarity, and rebellion across state lines and even the Atlantic Ocean a few times. We've managed to exist for over 13 years in one form or another by kissing nobody's ass and doing everything ourselves, for the most part. No rules! ... more

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