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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.

Barsy

by | Mar 27, 2019 | Poetry

My mother died a year ago today.

I feel I need do more than light a candle.
I should sit on a rock and meditate,
but somehow feel that’s more than I can handle.
It’s been suggested I should plant a tree
but my yard is already over crowded.
I could walk through the streets calling her name,
all dressed in black or maybe even shrouded.
Some say that I should play her favorite song,
the one which almost mentioned her by name.
I think I could not handle that for long,
no matter who the voice is singing “Mame.”
The proper thing, of course, would be to go
into a church and sit down in a pew,
reciting prayers to her departed soul,
but that’s something an atheist can’t do.
And so my tribute will be quite low key.
No chants or songs directed up above.
I’ll just remember what she meant to me.
And try to wrap my heart around her love.

Scupper

by | Mar 2, 2019 | Poem, Posthumous Additions

There’s a lot to be saved if for drinking supper;
cycle all those liquids as if you’re human scupper.

Give me one more beer, dear bartender.
I’m still a few away from being on a bender.
When I start to ask for whiskey, that’s a sign I’m getting frisky,
and it’s best if you return me to sender.

I would live in a bar and become a drunk star.
I would detail my antics on line.
I’d abandon my house and then total my car.
Every night I’d mix whiskey with wine.

There’s a lot to be saved by drinking supper;
cycle them damn liquids around like a human scupper.

A man might dedicate his life to alcohol.
And his friends might tell him that he’s headed for a fall.
But what’s the sense of living your life up against the wall?
The great god of fermentation has provided me my call.

I am loved in liquor stores and cabarets.
My life is interrupted frequently by short jail stays.
I often see the world as nothing but a bottle maze.
But I’m much to old to change my sippin’ ways.

There’s a lot to be said for drinking supper;
run them liquids in and out just like a human scupper.

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.