S am Cooke’s vision never ceased to grow. Just nineteen when he joined the nation’s #1 gospel quartet, he took his place seemingly without a moment’s doubt (“I had never seen anything like it,” says singer Lloyd Price. “I was the hottest thing in the countrywith ‘Lawdy Miss Clawdy,’ and here was this guy who just stood there and sung, and he rocked them”) and gave the Soul Stirrers their greatest commercial success with “Jesus Gave Me Water,” the first recorded number on which he sang lead.
S ix years later, in 1957, after conducting a sometimes contentious debate with himself for over a year, and with the active encouragement of Specialty a&r man Bumps Blackwell, he became the first of the gospel stars to go pop, enjoying a #1 hit with his first release, “You Send Me.” With former Pilgrim Travelers’ manager J.W. Alexander he established his own song publishing company, Kags, the following year, and in the fall of 1959, spurred on by the idea that there was nothing that a white business establishment could do that they were not capable of doing, he and Alexander, together with Soul Stirrers founder
Sam was always ambitious. He always knew exactly what he wanted to do. When we was little boys, he said, “L.C.,
I’m never going to work.”
I said, “What you mean, Sam?”
He said, “Man, I figured out the whole system.” He said, “It’s designed, if you work, to keep you working, all you do is live from payday to payday — at the end of the week you broke again.” He said, “I’m not going to do that. I’m going to sing, and I’m going to make me a lot of money.” And that’s what he did.
-- L.C. Cooke, on his brother's early dreams
S.R. Crain, established their own label, SAR Records, as much as anything, J.W. said, to record “people we liked.
Sam loved producing, and he wanted to give young artists a chance.”
W ith his signing to the RCA label in 1960, it might have seemed as if all of his most manifest ambitions had been fulfilled: he had achieved the kind of re-

spectability that Nat “King” Cole had found at Capitol, he was being offered the opportunity to expand his musical horizons beyond the parochial boundaries that limited so many rhythm and blues artists to the “race” market exclusively. Between 1960 and 1962, he generated one classic hit after another (“Chain Gang,” “Wonderful
World”, “Cupid,” “Having a Party,” “Bring It On Home
To Me”--but by the end of that year, after a triumphant
English tour co-headlining with Little Richard, it was clear that he was restless. In January he debuted his new stage act (after Europe, said J.W. Alexander, and the challenge of matching Little Richard night after night, “Sam finally got back into doing his gospel thing, you know, the real fervent approach”). In February he recorded an intimate, in-the-wee-small hours “concept album,” Night
Beat , that was almost its stylistic opposite, and by summer he and Alexander had their biggest pop hit, Mel
Carter’s “When a Boy Falls In Love,” on SAR’s sister label
Derby. But it was an almost chance business meeting in
March of that year that would have as liberating an effect on Sam Cooke’s career as any step he had taken to date.
A ctually it was a chance meeting on one side only.
Allen Klein was a 31-year-old accountant, much of whose work focused on the music industry. Three years earlier he had met disc jockey Doug “Jocko” Henderson through his association with rhythm and blues star Lloyd
Price, and he had just gone into partnership with Jocko with the idea of finding more music business clients.
Together they had overseen the refurbishing of Philadelphia’s cavernous State Theatre, where Jocko, whose
Rocket Ship radio show was a hit in New York and
Philadelphia but who had never been able to break into the concert promotion business in his native Philadelphia, hoped to challenge the hegemony of fellow
Philadelphia DJ Georgie Woods. The star of Jocko’s opening show on March 8, 1963, was Sam Cooke. It was
Jocko who recommended that Sam talk to Allen about his business.
I ’m the guy who said, ‘Sam this guy would be phenomenal for you.’ The record manufacturers didn’t treat anybody good, but the black artists, they tried to make sure they got absolutely nothing, absolutely, positively nothing. Allen was my accountant and my very close friend, and Sam was happy with him.” y May 1 Allen Klein had been designated Cooke’s B official representative to both RCA and BMI, the licensing agency that collects performance royalties for songwriters and publishers. By September he had gotten
Sam $119,000 in back royalties, a $50,000 BMI advance
(payable over two years), and a brand-new record deal which not only paid the artist $450,000 over five years but guaranteed full creative control under the aegis of the newly formed Tracey Ltd, a self-created manufacturing company which would license Sam Cooke’s records to
RCA for a period of thirty years. The idea, says Klein, whom Sam asked at this point to become his official manager (“I told him I had never managed anyone before. He said, ‘Look, I never wrote a song before I wrote my first one’”), was to give Sam “total artistic freedom, total control over his back catalogue, and the ability to be

He had all these different worlds. He had all these different lives. And he had this wonderful quality of making everyone feel like they were the most important person in the world to him. When I met him, under these strange circumstances, he didn’t have much money in the bank, he’d never really sold any albums, and RCA was pretty much ignoring him. I said, ‘I think I can do something,’ and I went out and did it. From the time that I first got involved with Sam, I fell in love with the man and the music.
—Allen Klein, on his early association with Sam Cooke completely self-contained,” an idea coinciding almost exactly with sentiments that Cooke himself was expressing at just about the same time. “My future lies more in creating music and records than in being a [live] performer,” Sam told Billboard in early 1964, and while it may not have been retirement precisely that was on his mind, he was definitely planning a major change. “Sam saw the business changing,” says Bobby Womack. “He told me, ‘There’s something coming, and it’s coming fast.’” It was a whole new way of doing things, according to Sam.
“It wasn’t about uniforms or how you dressed or some false world that you go to.” It was about talent, individuality, and the ability to control, and own, your own work.
T he first full-scale session under the new arrangement came just before Christmas, 1963. Like nearly all of Sam’s sessions, there was no question who was in charge (“I love talent, ‘cause then you don’t have to do anything!” says Luigi Creatore, who with his cousin and partner Hugo Peretti, had signed Sam to RCA). This was only the second time, though, that Sam would be going into the studio with the explicit intention of creating something more than a succession of hit singles or an albumoriented “theme” (Cooke’s Tour , a collection of
“travel songs,” was an early RCA example; Tribute to the Lady , a memorial to Billie Holiday on Keen, was a more ambitious one). He had been home since
Thanksgiving with the idea of concentrating solely on the upcoming session (“I told him to go home, you don’t have to worry about money,” says Allen
Klein) and to some extent, on the first night of the session, the tension may have shown.
H e opened with “Ain’t That Good News,” a recent composition that was little more than an adaptation of the old gospel number—with two significant differences. One was the old-timey banjo that opened the track (“Sam liked all kinds of music,”

says Luigi. “Stick a banjo in and get a different sound, that gives you something”); the other was the strong sense of wistful fatalism undercutting the overt cheerfulness of the song. “I think that’s because of the way he used the sixth chord rather than the [more common] dominant seventh,” says New Orleans songwriter/producer Allen Toussaint, who points out, “It caused him to be hip but not rowdy, extremely hip but the kind of hip that carries a comb, not a knife.” What is even more striking, though, as I think Toussaint might agree, is the way in which this very elegance of delivery is set off by an unaccountable melancholy, a kind of bittersweet quality that lies at the heart of all of his best work, from his 1957
“teen romance” hit, “You Send Me,” on.
I t was this very bringing together of opposites, the manipulation of conflicting emotions within the most familiar of musical settings (“You’re singing for people who don’t sing,” Sam told Bobby Womack, explaining the simplicity of his compositions) that enabled Sam to achieve such direct communication in a manner that in some ways appears obvious (the warmth of his voice, the directness of his words) but in other ways defies logical analysis. “Good Times,” for example, the second song of the session would appear to convey the most unambiguous of social exhortations (“Come on and let the good times roll/We gonna stay here till we soothe our souls/If it takes all night long”) in the most transparent of fashions. Clearly inspired by Louis Jordan’s seminal 1946 hit,”Let the Good Times Roll,” it never abandons its good-time theme, and yet it conveys that same sense of wistful melancholy while at the same time, like nearly all of Sam Cooke’s songs, deliberately inviting its audience to sing along.
I t took twenty-five takes to achieve that simplicity, with numerous overdubs by the singer himself of all the background parts and a sense of perfectionism that would seem to belie the easygoing nature of both the singer and the song. What he was aiming at in his delivery, he told a disbelieving Bobby Womack, was a kind of natural, conversational tone. “He said, ‘You know who I try to sing like? Louis Armstrong.’ I said, ‘Louis Armstrong?’ I thought that was crazy! But he said, ‘Don’t listen to the voice. Listen to the phrasing. It’s not like a song, it’s like two people rapping.’” And, for all the indisputable beauty and natural grace of Sam’s delivery, you realize that it’s true. It wasn’t until Sam and Louis Armstrong were long dead that Bobby finally snapped to it, “and I heard Sam’s voice saying, ‘Didn’t I tell you, fucker? Didn’t I tell you?’” am came into the studio to sing, that’s all. And his S wife came with him. She sat in the back. We were all conscious of what had happened. But we did what we had to do.
—Luigi Creatore on the somewhat subdued mood of the December session, just six months after the drowning death of Sam and Barbara Cooke’s 18-month-old son
I n the wake of that death, perhaps in denial of it, Sam had worked harder than ever, remaining on the road almost constantly from one week after the funeral in June

until Thanksgiving. “You never saw anger, but you saw depression,” says Lou Rawls. “He never really opened up, though, and let it go. I guess you would say he was introverted in that sense. Sam had the kind of charisma, when he walked in a room you just felt the glow of someone special. He never wanted to leave anybody with a bad taste in their mouth.”
P erhaps that is what comes through in the music, both the charisma and the sorrow. On the second night of the session, after a buoyant “Basin Street,” complete with supper-club ending, and “Home,” another ‘30s standard (not coincidentally also recorded by Louis Armstrong), he embarked upon a pensive original by his longtime guitarist, Cliff White. “No
Second Time” sounds as if it was written specifically for Sam—and it may well have been, given the rarity of
Sam recording anyone’s originals but his own—but what is most striking about it is its tone of muted anger, the kind of emotion that Lou Rawls and almost everyone close to Sam says he would never directly express. “The Riddle Song,” the traditional Appalachian ballad which under other circumstances might invite charges of saccharinity, conveys emotion of a different sort. When he sang the answer to the final riddle
(“How can there be a baby with no crying?”), Sam himself started to cry, according to string section leader Sid Sharp. “You could hear his voice break,”
Sharp told Cooke biographer Daniel Wolff. “He definitely was crying.”
B y the time that he returned to the studio in January of 1964, Sam had taken another step in another
Sam would read and read — it got to be almost like a desperate situation. He told me, “Bob, if you read, you gonna write that much easier. You can say what’s on your mind, because you’re not interpreting, you know what you mean. That’s the only way you can grow.
Otherwise you’re going to write love songs for the rest of your life. But everything’s not just about love. You can write in a way where it’s like an abstract painting, you can get so much out of it. You can say things direct to people, and they can accept it — because of the way you put it.”
—Bobby Womack on Sam’s advice to him not long after he joined the band unlikely direction. In the fall he had met up again with an old friend, Harold Battiste. Battiste, a former schoolteacher and New Orleans native, had just gone to work for Specialty
Records when Sam recorded “You Send Me” and in the intervening years had struck out on his own, forming a musicians’ collective called AFO (All For One), with which he had sought, in the terms of his 1959 Manifesto, to take con-

trol of the means of production. In the summer of 1963 he and his fellow group members, known collectively as the AFO Executives, had moved to Los Angeles, where union rules proved a stumbling block to regular work, and they were on the verge of going home when they ran into Sam. By January Sam had put them on retainer and made up his mind to use them on his sessions with the idea, said J.W. Alexander, of “broadening his sound,” and with a commitment to the same political goals that
Harold Battiste, then a Black Muslim, espoused: political and economic self-determination.
N ot everyone was happy with the new musical arrangement. Bobby Womack for one, not yet twenty and recently plucked from his brothers’ group, the Valentinos, to play guitar for Sam, saw the AFO as a kind of step backward. “I didn’t like it, I thought it was old-fashioned, but Sam heard something in New Orleans that he felt should be brought back to LA. I thought
Sam’s stuff was too pretty for the way they voiced, but he said it was going to be a whole new thing: he was really trying to create something different.”
T he first date on which they played was a January 21
Johnnie Morisette session for SAR that Sam produced. A week later, on January 28, they were back in the studio for the first day of a split, two-day session with
Sam. Taking advantage of a Soul Stirrers gospel session he had scheduled for earlier that day, Sam not only produced two very different-sounding gospel sides on the quartet with the AFO band providing support; he added the Stirrers’ unmistakable gospel harmonies (and LeRoy
Crume’s guitar) to his own session, to create a melding of gospel fervor and New Orleans rhythms on a pair of songs he had already recorded on two of his SAR artists plus a country-and-western standard.
R ome (Wasn’t Built in a Day)” had itself started out life in very different fashion when it was first recorded by country singer Johnny Russell in 1958. Originally written by the Prudhomme twins (Betty and Beverly), Los Angeles songwriters who had met Sam in the wake of his earliest pop success, it had captured Sam’s fancy and he had rewritten it for former Soul Stirrer
Johnnie Taylor’s first pop hit in 1962. For his own version Sam slowed the tempo down and, once again, imparted a wistful quality to it, giving each verse the same clipped conversational tone that he admired in Louis
Armstrong, then permitting the chorus to swell in the more languorous legato fashion that he felt encouraged the audience to sing along.
M eet Me at Mary’s Place” was a variation on “Meet
Me at the Twistin’ Place,” a hit he had written and produced on the irrepressible Johnnie Morisette two years earlier, with, once again, a very different approach from the original. Sam seemed to hear a melody that stood almost in opposition to the raucous party-like atmosphere of Morisette’s version (and Sam’s original lyrics), while the Stirrers’ good-natured background vocals reinforced its gospel feel and underscored its new message (sent out to Mary Trap, a gospel promoter in
Charlotte, North Carolina, whose house was a kind of headquarters for all the traveling quartets), an affection-

Sam was the only guy whose voice would sound like an instrument.
Jackie Wilson was exciting, but Sam was so dynamic he would mesmerize the women. He was like their lover, and they would faint, actually fall out sometimes, when he would walk down the aisle.
—Early Byrd, rhythm and blues and gospel jock, on the impact of Sam’s music, both sacred and secular ate salute not just to a single individual but to a fondly recollected era. Even “Tennessee Waltz,” the Patti Page standard, had a strong gospel flavor to it, with the opening reminiscent of Roy Hamilton’s gospel-inflected “You Can Have Her” and the high note Sam reaches for in the chorus (“I never thought he was going to make it,” says LeRoy Crume with wry amusement) providing an ironic moment of almost triumphant emotionalism in a sad song originally written in three-quarter time.
A Change Is Gonna Come,” the first song he took up at the full-orchestra session scheduled just two days after the
Soul Stirrers/AFO date, was born of the contradictions Sam
Cooke had observed all his life and experienced almost daily. Like most black entertainers, he had been conflicted for some time as to how to respond to racial conditions, particularly in the South, where he had been touring constantly for well over a decade, first with the Soul Stirrers, then on his own. In 1961, for example, he had refused to play a segregated date in Memphis in the face of threats of jail and financial penalties, but for the most part he had made the same choice as other performers, confining himself to small, if meaningful, acts of personal liberation. y 1963, though, the civil rights revolution was B exploding all around him and every other entertainer out there (“We travel all over the country,” said Sam’s friend and early mentor Clyde McPhatter, “having the opportunity to observe first-hand the plight of [our people]”), and it was in fact conversations with student sit-in demonstrators in
Durham, North Carolina, in May of 1963 after a show, that first inspired the idea for the song. This was followed almost immediately by his hearing
Bob Dylan’s “Blowin’ in the Wind” (“He listened to that,” said J.W. Alexander, “and he said, ‘Alec, I got to write something. Here’s a white boy writing a song like this....”) and his own arrest in October for trying to register at a segregated Shreveport motel.
With that the song came to him, almost, he said, as if it were dictated in a dream. “He was very excited,” said J.W. Alexander, “and when he finished it, he explained it to me----his reason behind the lyrics.

Like, ‘I don’t know what’s up there beyond the sky’ — it’s like somebody’s talking about I want to go to heaven, really, but then who knows what’s really up there? In other words, that’s why you want justice on earth. Or, you know, in the verse where he says, ‘I go to my brother and I say, Brother, help me please,’—you know he was talking about the establishment—and then he says, ‘That motherfucker winds up knocking me back down on my knees.’ He said, ‘I think my daddy will be proud.’ I said,
‘I think so, Sam.’”
E veryone in the studio seemed to know how significant the song was, if only by the way that Sam was treating it. According to Rene Hall, a New Orleans native who arranged the vast majority of Sam’s sessions from “You Send Me” on, it was the only song Sam ever gave to him to fully orchestrate. Under ordinary circumstances “he would tell me what line he wanted, he’d hum what he wanted the bass to play, hum the string
[part] and various instruments. The only tune that I can ever recall where he said, ‘I’m going to leave that up to you,’ was ‘A Change Is Gonna Come,’ and I wanted it to be the greatest thing in my [life].” The wash of strings set off by a French horn, J.W. Alexander said, gave the song a particularly mournful sound. “It was very deep,” says Luigi Creatore, who with his partner Hugo Peretti left RCA shortly after the session. “It was a serious piece, but still it was him. He was really digging into himself for this one.”
S am rarely sang the song in public—there is no other recorded performance, save for an appearance on the
Johnny Carson Show just one week later. By the time that he went into the studio again in March, he had attended the Clay-Liston fight in Miami, where he was summoned into the ring by Cassius Clay and hailed by the new champion as "the World's Greatest Rock ‘n' Roll
Singer." An inveterate reader from childhood on, he was focused more and more now on race issues, studying
W.E.B. DuBois, James Baldwin's The Fire Next Time , and
Black Muslim readings recommended by Malcolm X, with whom he spent a good deal of time in Miami ("I ain't no Muslim," he told his brother L.C., "and I ain't gonna be, but they got some good ideas").
H e was focusing on his musical future, too. With the coming of the Beatles and singer-songwriters like
Bob Dylan, he saw the musical climate rapidly changing, a change he urged his SAR artists to embrace. On March
24 he produced a session on the Valentinos, known as the Womack Brothers when Sam first signed them to
SAR as a gospel quartet three years earlier. The centerpiece for the March session was a song that Bobby Womack had written with his sister-in-law called “It’s All Over
Now.” When the Rolling Stones covered the song just as it was taking off a few months later, Bobby was heartbroken, and angry, too. “But Sam said, ‘Bobby, you’ll never regret this.’ I said, ‘Man, them cats ain’t even hittin’ the notes.’ He said, ‘Bobby, this group will change the industry. They gonna make it loose for everybody, and there ain’t no sense in fighting it. It’s just gonna make you bigger.’”

A t that same March session the Womacks were fooling around with a song called “If I Got My
Ticket.” “Sam told us it needed work, it wasn’t ready yet.” The next day Sam went into the studio, with
Bobby and his brother Cecil joining Harold Battiste’s
New Orleans contingent, and used the same melody for a dance song that he called “Yeah Man.” It would become better known in Arthur Conley’s version as
“Sweet Soul Music”—but its infectious rhythm and genial tone echoed Sam’s view that popular music more and more was “almost all sound. It used to be that sound brought attention to the lyric,” he explained, but what you needed to do today was to find sounds that could “emotionally move” an audience,
“inject [the kind of] fervor that makes people want to dance.”
T hat direction was taken several steps further in his final session, in November, when he cut a song inspired by Bobby Freeman’s “The Swim,” a pure rhythm number propelled by bass, toms, and Bobby
Womack’s guitar. “He was trying to get a new beat, a new dance thing going,” recalls Al Schmitt, who had taken over a&r duties from Hugo and Luigi in March.
“Everybody in the studiowas excited. We thought we had started a whole new thing.”
R eal gospel music has got to make a comeback.
-Sam Cooke in Melody Maker, July 4, 1964
A ctually if you listen to this album you might deduce that Sam’s original gospel sound never re-
Sam asked me to come to his house.
He wanted me to hear something.
When I heard it, I said, “Man, this is spooky. The song is so spooky.” He said, “It feels like death, don’t it?”
—Bobby Womack on first hearing “A Change
Is Gonna Come” ally went away. “A Change Is Gonna Come” could be seen as an extension, both melodically and lyrically, of gospel music’s greatest tradition: delivering good news in bad times. “Ain’t That Good News” makes the connection even more explicit, while “Ease My Troublin’ Mind” and
“That’s Where It’s At” provide a kind of template for the gospel-based ‘60s soul that came to dominate the charts for the next three or four years. Even “Tennesse Waltz” suggests the underlying gospel feeling of almost all of Sam
Cooke’s work.

ut if you listen to this album in another way, it stands B as testimony to the diversity of Sam Cooke’s musical interests as well, to the restless exploration that led him to insist stubbornly on his own interpretation of George
Gershwin’s “Summertime” against the advice of his musical elders at his very first full-fledged pop session. “Sam listened to everything,” says his brother L.C. “Hillbilly.
Opera. There wasn’t nothing Sam didn’t like. And he could sing it all.” The range of music that he took on in the last year of his life pretty much bears out this statement: standards like “You’re Nobody Till Somebody
Loves You,” a dreamy teen ballad like “When a Boy Falls in Love,” the lush orchestration of Harold Battiste’s
“Falling in Love,” corny but heartfelt chestnuts like
“Country Boy,” a ricky-tick novelty like “Cousin of
Mine” (which Sam persuaded a very credulous Bobby
Womack was a true story)—banjos, flutes, French horns, and gospel harmonies all meld together to create satisfyingly unpredictable whole. “An artist isn’t buried in one section,” says Luigi Creatore. “He’s aware of music all around him.” “He always seemed to have a vision of how to make the music sound,” says Harold Battiste, whose own taste leaned more to progressive jazz.
“He’s a unique, original singer—I don’t know what makes him that, but it’s like with Charlie Parker, it’s hard to get around singing after Sam without getting some part of Sam.”
H is approach to each song is different; his diction will vary, depending on context, from the correctness of
“Country Boy” to the more idiomatic voice of “Troublin’
Mind.” And yet it is always Sam. Listening to a rough cut of the album with Bobby Womack, I am struck by how visibly excited Bobby becomes as he hears the previously unreleased “Keep Movin’ On” (from a session on which
Bobby did not play) for the first time. “Yeah,” he says, singing along with its simple inspirational message. “I remember playing this in the car. I didn’t realize he ever cut it. He’d always say, ‘I like that song: keep moving on, you know.’” It expressed, says Bobby, a kind of philosophy. “Sam would say, ‘You know, you’ll keep going, and one day you’ll realize when you first start, it’s when you’re at your best. You don’t even think about what you’re doing, and then all of a sudden twenty years later you trying to come up with a record.’ Well, you know, you start thinking about it. Today you’re young. Tomorrow you’re old, and, you know, it’s all gone past and it’s somebody else’s turn. It don’t make death such a horrible thing. It’s just another stage.”
O n December 10, the last night of his life, Sam met with longtime arranger Rene Hall to go over the new act he was putting together for a Christmas engagement at the Deauville Hotel in Miami. They taped some new songs, sketching out the arrangements, until Sam had to leave for dinner with Al Schmitt and his wife at a
Hollywood nightspot. There the discussion focused on the new album Sam was planning, a blues album for which he was just beginning to come up with material.
“Sam told me, ‘This is what I want to do,’” says Schmitt.
“It was the first I had heard of it!” We can, of course, only imagine what that album might have been like. We

can only imagine what the rest of Sam’s life would have been like if he had not been shot and killed, at thirty-three, in a senseless incident later that night.
B ut this is more than the story of a future that never fully came to pass–though it is that, too. We hear many stories of unfulfilled promise, but the focus in the case of Sam
Cooke should be on the remarkable things he achieved in his fourteen years in the spotlight, the gifts with which he left us. We know one thing: Sam’s voice remains unquenchable: the zest, the joy, the unvanquishable spirit with which he embraced life sings out in the songs. He wasn’t worried about others imitating him. He knew, says Bobby
Womack, that “nobody sound like Sam but Sam. Just like nobody sound like Ray Charles but Ray. He said, ‘I don’t even know why I do what I do. When I do it, it just comes.’”
A nd that’s the way this music sounds: as spontaneous, as elegant, as full of mirth, sadness, and surprise as when it first came out of his mouth, translating somehow across the ages in ways that have little to do with calculation or fashion and everything to do with spontaneity of feeling, with a kind of purity of soul.
P eter Guralnick is currently working on a biography of
Sam Cooke to be published by Little, Brown.
K eep movin’ on, keep movin’ on, life is this way, eep movin’ on, keep movin’ on, everyday
W hen I go to sleep at night, I add up my day, tryin’ to recall the things I done, and debts I have to pay, for there is one thing that I know, what you reap is what you sow
K eep movin’ on, keep movin’ on, life is this way, eep movin’ on, keep movin’ on, everyday rother mind what you do, and how you treat your B fellow man, if your like me you’d try to live the very best you can, for if you spread good all around, you’d be able to sleep when the sun goes down
K eep movin’ on, keep movin’ on, life is this way, eep movin’ on, keep movin’ on, everyday
© 2001 ABKCO Music, Inc.