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Borderline Psychotic

by | Mar 27, 2019 | Posthumous Additions, Song

So here’s a song which could have subtitle new national anthem:

I’ll put a fucking wall
around you all.
I’ll toss your kids in cages
in the cold.
Paranoia has me in its thrall.
But I am made of concrete
and I will never fold.

Don’t talk about taxes.
What about the faxes?
Fake news! Dems are the colluders!
I have every right to cede
this country to intruders.

Pack up your investigation.
Won’t outlast my litigation.
Second term will be vacation.
Sell off many parcels of our nation.
What’s left will
have significant revamps.
And some amongst you
will be sent to camps.

Don’t mention obstruction.
The deep state’s big construction.
Witch hunt! The media committed treason.
I might just declare that this is
liberal hunting season.

The Week Will Inherit the Earth

by | Mar 2, 2019 | Posthumous Additions, Song

It was just the saddest thing I’d heard.
Blue Monday’s sun was eaten by a bird.
It took off to the moon.
That light was gone too soon.
And now the dark’s just waiting for the word.
More bad news came the next day as I feared.
Ruby Tuesday up and disappeared.
Her dreams had all gone wrong.
She strangled in the song.
And then the restaurant: now that was weird.

Now there’s a weakness in the middle of the week,
a wrongness that wrecks words and makes it hard to speak.
And then the weekend comes, a three-day weirdness tweak.
But then it starts again, the bird with sun in beak.

///////oy couldn’t find a Wednesday connect except morning comin down /// if you can throw in WThF verses, then the last 4 lines could be chorus in this spot and at the end . ////// . we could have false names for writing credits, like Jah&Pa .
Stay tuned.

Rocking Chair Blues

by | Mar 2, 2019 | Song

I get those rocking chair blues
every time I hear the news.
There’s a man in shirt and shoes
who is drowning in his clues.
And a circle of bad folks
who are out there telling jokes.
And no one’s dying anywhere
or hiding dirty underwear.
There is no legal treason case
when all the judges wear his face.
And everyone not on the take
is vilified as wrong or fake.
The workers take his hardest hits.
When he opens his mouth he shits.
His odor spreads around the globe.
In all, he is a mankind-phobe.
That’s why I got to get out
from these rocking chair blues.
I’m sick of seeing nazis
toting guns and fire and booze.
There’s a man upon a hill
in shirt, shoes and red tie,
who’ll stop these rocking, shocking blues
when hung up by his lie.

Bad Heart Song

by | Mar 9, 2018 | Posthumous Additions, Song

They cracked my ribs, took out my heart,
probably the hardest part.
Took some veins out of my calf.
That tickled and made me laugh.
While I was laying on my back,
they used my heart like a hacky sack.
In my chest, they tapped my lungs,
playing them like bongo drums.
Blood was flowing like a river.
Someone yelled, “Take out his liver!”
Good thing I was under gas,
would have kicked some doctor ass.
Then they put the heart back in,
passed around a fifth of gin,
tied my ribs and sewed my chest.
They had done their very best.
Last thing I heard was their hollers,
“That’ll be two million dollars!”

Little Riddle

by | Nov 28, 2017 | Song

Little Riddle said the way you got ’em
was a passing glance as if you shot ’em.
In the middle of his dirty bottom was a tattooed star.
Used to line his eyes but never dot ’em,
wear his boots until the mud would rot ’em.
Drive his bike until the cops would spot him.
In his head he heard a soft guitar.
All roads would lead up to the cabin.
He’d light a fire that would end up with him dabbin’.
He took to melancholy tunes that felt like stabbin’.
Out in the weeds there was a tireless car.
Anyone within a hundred miles
knew he had a nest of crocodiles.
The police sketch looked like he was Harry Styles,
but with a mean old scar.
And every time they had the boy surrounded,
he would escape in ways that just astounded.
His feet were flyin’ but his head was grounded.
They’d search for hours for him near and far.
He’d show up later in another county.
It didn’t matter what they set as bounty.
Could be Columbo or a Do-Right mountie.
He was a snake under a limbo bar.
The Little Riddle legend still is told.
A hero outlaw story don’t grow old.
There could be ten more verses might unfold.
Maybe some day there’ll be a seminar.
All roads would lead up to the cabin.
He’d light a fire that would end up with him dabbin’.
He took to melancholy tunes that felt like stabbin’.
And in his head he heard a soft guitar.

Reincarnation Blues

by | Oct 30, 2017 | Song

I was standin’ on the cusp of a whole new cycle.
I had made it to the mountaintop, was talkin’ straight to Michael,
when a big wind up and tumbled me down like a human sack
and I woke up to discover I was three lives back.
Three lives back. I was a caped crusader.
Three lives back. I didn’t know Ralph Nader.
I worked each day just like a dog but only made serf wages.
And once a year I might eat hog. I hate the Middle Ages!
A man works ten lives to evolve and seems to be on track.
But one bad break and, "Sorry, Jake," he wakes up three lives back.
Three lives back. I’ll miss my comfy houses.
Three lives back. I’ll have to live with louses.
The only benefit I see so far is peasant blouses.
And three lives back, I did have several spouses.