Ghost Writers in the Sky

A Fleet Street hack went walking out
One dark and windy day,
Upon a bench he rested as
He went along his way,
When all at once a mighty crowd
Of B-list slebs he saw
Posing in the ragged skies
All teeth and stubbled jaw.

Yippee-aye-ay, yippee-aye-oh,
Ghost trendies in the sky.

Their Dolce and Gabbana shades
Their gelled and spiky hair
Versace suits and Gucci shoes
They can’t afford to wear
A bolt of fear shot through him as
He looked up in the sky,
For he saw some writers poundin' hard
And he heard their mournful cry:

Yippee-aye-ay, yippee-aye-oh,
Ghost writers in the sky.

And as the slebs flashed by him
They were talking into tapes
Recalling nights of snortin’ coke
And unreported rapes
The writers had to listen and
Make sense of all that tosh
A sleb autobiography
Can make a bit of dosh.

Yippee-aye-ay, yippee-aye-oh,
Ghost writers in the sky.

Their faces gaunt, their eyes half-closed
With booze and cigarettes,
Those writers have a deadline,
But they ain't caught it yet,
'cause they've got to pound forever on
Those PCs in the sky,
Their keyboards are on fire; as
They write on, hear their cry:

Yippee-aye-ay, yippee-aye-oh,
Ghost writers in the sky.

The spectres shimmered past him and
He heard one call his name,
‘If you want to save your soul from hell
On this ghost Street of Shame,
Then, journo, change your ways today,
Or with us you will write,
For ever, in first person,
Some dodgy soap star’s life.’

Yippee-aye-ay, yippee-aye-oh,
Ghost writers in the sky.

Words and music by Stan Jones

An old cowpoke went riding out
One dark and windy day,
Upon a ridge he rested as
He went along his way,
When all at once a mighty herd
Of red eyed cows he saw,
A-plowin' through the ragged skies
And up a cloudy draw.

Yippee-yi-ya, yippee-yi-yo,
Ghost herd in the sky.

Their brands were still on fire and
Their hooves were made of steel,
Their horns were black and shiny and
Their hot breath he could feel,
A bolt of fear shot through him as
He looked up in the sky,
For he saw the riders comin' hard
And he heard their mournful cry:

Yippee-yi-ya, yippee-yi-yo,
Ghost riders in the sky.

Their faces gaunt, their eyes were blurred,
Their shirts all soaked with sweat,
They're riding hard to catch that herd,
But they ain't caught 'em yet,
'cause they've got to ride forever on
That range up in the sky,
On horses snortin' fire, as
They ride on hear their cry:

Yippee-yi-ya, yippee-yi-yo,
Ghost riders in the sky.

The cowpokes loped on past him and
He heard one call his name,
If you want to save your soul from hell
A-riding on our range,
Then, cowboy, change your ways today,
Or with us you will ride,
A-trying to catch the devil's herd
Across these endless skies.

Yippee-yi-ya, yippee-yi-yo,
Ghost riders in the sky.

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