Tin can for a drum,
With a new friend playing bass
On upright washtub...
Making music any way we know how,
To beat out the angels and demons
Hiding behind our crinkled brows...
What horrible torture became me,
That I now sing off-key -
An octave and a third
Below what used to be.
It seems that now I mimic
Tom Waits, Leonard Cohen, and Lou Reed -
Mind you, not that bad of a company.
I tried to play recorder as a child,
And gave my early years at college
To walking and playing riffs on harmonica
Until I bent it forever, by sitting upon it.
Yet, no instrument do I claim finesse upon.
So, I guess I must be a fickle critic...
Forever discriminating what I hear
With what I hold oh so dear.
I claim no song written today,
Or even good metric talents,
To line up words to funky beats...
Some times I like to throw out some rhymes -
Influence, perhaps, of Pink Floyd and all their lines.
Still, no forced rules today,
No attempt to rhyming play.
I wonder aloud,
How music lifts my dark clouds,
When I just listen.
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