All three can be found on YouTube.com:

The Box Top Shop

I’m gonna open up
a Box Top Shop,
and sell to all my friends –
Maybe hustle up the neighbors
for their boxtops, sides, and ends.
And if I ever make it to the
City Council,
I’ll have to sacrifice my seat,
’cause they can’t buy no boxtops
from a Councilman named Pete,
it’s against the law.
It’s against the law,
whatever you thought or saw,
it’s probably against the law.

There’s a Councilman
Jerry Hayes, he’s on First Street
sellin’ his brooms.
You’d think he opened a bordello,
and was tryin’ to fill up all of his rooms.
When the City Hall gets wise,
they come knockin’ at his door,
they say, “Your dustpans are contraband,
we ain’t buyin’ ’em anymore!”
It’s against the law.
It’s against the law,
whatever you thought or saw,
it’s probably against the law.

So I’m headed up to Vallejo,
but I’m thinking about Benicia First,
when I end up in Suisun,
to kill off a terrible thirst.
It’s there they tell me that Vacaville
is the place that I should buy
anything I need in Benicia
and there’s only one reason why:
It’s against the law.
It’s against the law,
whatever you thought or saw,
it’s probably against the law.

So I’m headed up to Dixon,
gonna buy myself some sheep,
and I’m wonderin’ if every courtroom
is aways stacked that deep?
When up there in the sky,
I see the Goodyear blimp,
and behind him he drags a banner
that makes my heart go limp:
It’s against the law.
It’s against the law,
whatever you thought or saw,
it’s probably against the law.

So I’m headed down to the waterfront
when I’m held up by three ducks!
And they’re all wearing ski masks
and drivin’ this 4-wheel drive trucks.
When I ask them what they want,
they only ask me to ask:
“Is it against the law?
Is it against the law?
Is everything we thought or saw
is it aways against the law?”
It’s against the law.
It’s against the law,
whatever you thought or saw,
it’s probably against the law.
Whatever you thought or saw,
it’s probably against the law.

©Peter Bray 1992
All rights reserved

The East Benicia Jail Song

I think I’ve been released
from the East Benicia Jail,
the Warden sent a message
and I got it in the mail.
It seems that there’s some locals,
and me that don’t agree,
so they called the Big Commission
and they in turn called me.
They said, “You can’t get to Heaven
walkin’ sideways in the dark,
and you can’t fuel the furnace
sleepin’ with pigeons in the park.
We’re all a little crazy,
and we’re all a little weird,
but all we need is Love
’cause we’ve had enough of Fear.”

Well, I thanked them for their wisdom,
and all their sage advice,
I knew I’d seen the light
if not the fire in their eyes.
Now when I get crazy,
well, I’ll know just what to do,
I’ll sing these words to you,
so you will know them too:
“Oh No, you can’t get to Heaven
walkin’ sideways in the dark,
and you can’t fuel the furnace
sleepin’ with pigeons in the park.
We’re all a little crazy,
and we’re all a little weird,
but all we need is Love
’cause we’ve had enough of Fear.”

I’ve never been to Paris
and I rarely get to Rome,
but if I died in Crockett,
they’d probably send me home
with a road map in my pocket
from the East Benicia Jail,
they’d wait upon the high tide,
then set me out to sail.
And if I never made it,
well, that’d probably be OK,
I’d drift long forever
on the San Francisco Bay –
’Cause you can’t get to Heaven
walkin’ sideways in the dark,
and you can’t fuel the furnace
sleepin’ with pigeons in the park.
We’re all a little crazy,
and we’re all a little weird,
but all we need is Love
’cause we’ve had enough of Fear.
All we need is Love
’cause we’ve had enough of Fear.”

©Peter Bray 1992
All rights reserved

The Rose
Written by Amanda McBroom
and sung by Bette Midler

Some say love,
it is a river
that drowns
the tender reed.
Some say love,
it is a razor
that leaves your soul
to bleed.
Some say love,
it is a hunger,
an endless aching need.
I say love,
it is a flower
and you, it’s only seed.

It’s the heart,
afraid of breaking
that never learns to dance.
It’s the dream,
afraid of waking
that never takes a chance.
It’s the one who won’t be taken
who cannot seem to give,
and the soul, afraid of dying
that never learns to live.

When the night
has been too lonely
and the road
has been too long.
And you think that love
is only for the lucky
and the strong.
Just remember
in the winter
far beneath the bitter snow,
lies the seed
that with the sun’s love,
in the Spring becomes The Rose.

© Amanda McBroom
All rights reserved

Peter Bray lives, writes and works in Benicia,
and has written this column since 2008.