Withered me, leathered me,
grizzled beard on weathered me;
walk me out to any cliff,
let the wind put an end to me.

Blackball me, lever me,
pry me up and sever me;
make me shut my mouth for good,
turn me into history.

I can’t do this by myself,
I can’t make me disappear.
I can only do it with your help,
Hold my hand and help dispel the fear;

Obese me, obscene me,
Rattle brained depressing me;
Put me on a chariot,
Let the angels carry me.

For too long I’ve been trying hard
To take that last walk on my own.
I’ve been killing off my heart,
I’m no good at it when I’m all alone;

So comfort me, comfort me,
I’ll nullify your faith in me;
Watch me walk away from this
and you can keep the best of me.

Funny what a newly restrung guitar and a good drop-D tuning will do for ya. 😉

Second Coming Blues

Well, I ain’t superstitious
But a rough beast just crossed my path
Well, I ain’t superstitious
But a rough beast just crossed my path
Said the center isn’t holding
And my hour’s coming round at last

No I ain’t superstitious
But a rough beast just slouched my way
You know, I ain’t superstitious
But this rough beast just slouched my way
Said you’re between me and Bethlehem
And I’m late for my birthday

Well, the center isn’t holding
And the best lack all conviction
A cradle’s rocking gently
But the falcon just went missin’ —

Well, I ain’t superstitious
But a rough beast just crossed my path
Well, I ain’t superstitious
But a rough beast just crossed my path
Said the center isn’t holding
And my hour’s coming round at last

It’s kind of an odd piece for me…think Les Barker and you’re on the right track musically. As for motivation, I just wanted to write something unreservedly… silly.

Reprobate

Oh, I’ve been exposed to lots of things
And seen the world of culture,
You might say when it comes to art
I’m a sort of culture vulture,

From Balinese performance art
To cabaret in Soho,
I’ve heard a bit of everything
And I know the good from the so-so.

Poetry from slam to school,
Paintings from Pollock to El Greco,
Outlaw country hardcore bands
And Bauhaus to roccoco.

But I never thought that I’d exclude
Any form of expression
Until I realized that there
Was art that caused depression.

Chorus:
And it’s still a big surprise to me
I seem to have chosen
I’d rather hear “The Humpty Dance”
Than listen to Beethoven.

(4-6 fingerpicked bars of “Fur Elise”, followed by:)
“humpty hump…do the humpty hump…”

From underground to concert hall,
From night club to recital,
The thought of hearing classical
Can make me suicidal.

There’s something in a string quartet
That sets my teeth to grinding,
There’s something ’bout an orchestra,
My brain begins unwinding.

The lowbrow art of everyday
Appeals to my sensations,
And as far as I’m concerned,
It gets my commendation.

Chorus 2:
And it seems to me a big surprise
That the tunes to which I’m partial
Sound more like “Daydream Nation”
And less like Brahms’ “Pastoral.”

Mozart, Bach, and Berlioz
Receive their due from history,
But Tom Waits and the Residents
Are more my cup of mystery.

If all you take away from this
Is that I am a cretin,
This cretin hops with pride and joy,
Unwashed and unbeaten.

And if all you take away from this
Is disdain and rejection,
I’m proud to hold the banner high
For contrarian selection.

Chorus 3:
And it seems to there’s no surprise
To the path that I have chosen,
Since I understand Grandmaster Flash
More than I understand Beethoven.

I’m proud to say I have no shame
In thus blowing my cover,
I’d rather have my iPod set
To Beethoven rolling over.