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I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song
Three minutes thirteen seconds
So, it wasn't quite that long
Filled with love and disappointments
All the things a good song needs
I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song

They said "write something simple"
I said "I'll see what I can do"
They told me "you can do it"
"you're the best at what you do"

I needed something with emotion
Something new and something hot
I wrote for fourteen hours
And this is what I got

I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song
Three minutes thirteen seconds
So, it wasn't quite that long
Filled with love and disappointments
All the things a good song needs
I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song

It was a little love song
You know...people could relate
I played it to the band
They said "Man, this song is great"

It's a little bit of Shakespeare
With some Poe there on the side
The song was full of highs and lows
It would take you for a ride

I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song
Three minutes thirteen seconds
So, it wasn't quite that long
Filled with love and disappointments
All the things a good song needs
I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song

In the end when it was finished
It charted, not for long
Then I realized the story here
Was the story 'bout the song

So, I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song
Three minutes thirteen seconds
So, it wasn't quite that long
Filled with love and disappointments
All the things a good song needs
I wrote a song about a story about a story about a song
To tell you the truth,I want to be just like them.
To have a talent, and a perfect em
I don't have to be a star, I just want to fit in.
I'm the f on the test, do have to say it again?

I messed it up, killed vitamin m
I'm a splintered piece, a shattered gem
I made you cry, I'm an onion stem
I'm the worst at my best, should I say it again?

Sing my anthem, sing along.
I promise you, you won't be wronged
So sing my anthem, and come along,
Failure my theme song

Oh...
Failure, failure, failure my theme song
Failure, failure, failure my theme song
Failure, failure, failure my theme song
Failure my theme song

Look a me, I'm not pretend
In a visual world, worth depends
I'm a mirror to the world, this is the end
I'm the lowest of all, slap me again!

I fight my past, will I ever win?
Infinite quest, where is my twin
I'm losing the fight, farewell my friend
I'm losing control, all I see are fiends
I'm failing again, ill never win

Sing my anthem, sing along.
I promise you, you won't be wronged
So sing my anthem, and come along,
Failure my theme song
Keep on going, the battle's prolonged
Ring the bells, ding **** ding ****
Fly a kite, the string so long
Who choked the worst, I'll do them wrong!
Failure my theme song
Oh Failure my theme song

Failure, failure, failure my theme song
Failure, failure, failure my theme song
Failure, failure, failure my theme song
Failure my theme song

Worthless, useless, ignorant, freak,
Just accept it, this is me
Stupid, idiot, nerdy geek
I've always wondered my destiny
I'm a failure, don't you see?
You sang my anthem, you sang along (you sang my song)
I promised you, you wouldn't be wronged
So you sang my anthem, and came along
Failure our theme song...

Sing my anthem, sing along.
I promise you, you won't be wronged
So sing my anthem, and come along,
Failure my theme song
Keep on going, the battle's prolonged
Ring the bells, ding **** ding ****
Fly a kite, the string so long
They choked the worst, I did them wrong!
Failure my theme song
Imprisonment, we'll be amongst
Dancing free, chained sarong
I know my place, tempted strong
I'm Zelkova, not a currajong
Failure my theme song
Oh failure our theme song

Failure, failure, failure my theme song
Failure, failure, failure my theme song
Failure, failure, failure my theme song
Failure my theme song
Oh failure my theme song
kirk Jan 2018
The birthday song is not a song it's not even a small ditty
As it is only four lines long it's really rather ******
There isn't a good chorus so isn't that a pity
A catchy tune it has not got and the lyrics are not witty

This song's lyrics are so short and there all the ****** same
Apart from the 3rd line down when you substitute a name
Okay you say "Dear" instead of "To", but its still a basic frame
So this is not a song at all so why has it got the fame

It's no wonder people alter the words with monkeys in the zoo
And looking like these critters and smelling like them too
Or changed to bread and butter in the gutter or squashed tomatoes and stew
Because the song is so boring so what else can you do

Who the hell wrote this song was it someone who's autistic
Come on now lets be frank and a bit more realistic
If I where to write this song producers would go ballistic
I'd get thrown out of the biz and become a lost statistic

Just because it's your birthday I'm not singing about happy
People are compelled to sing when really its just ******
It's not the best song in the world I don't want to sound so snappy
The birthday song is full of crap just like a soiled *****

It's like we are pre programmed even Marilyn Monroe
To sing the ****** birthday song just for ****** show
But honestly this song is crap and it can surely go
And we can stop with the pretence and cease going with the flow

When your birthday does arrive and your expecting a big day
The time will come when you know your ears are going to pay
Cos someone's bound to start it with or without your say
Why does it have to be sung does it have to be this way

Singing the birthday song should not be a life compulsion
Don't succumb to the trend and quash your minds impulsion  
Stamp down on the process and enforce a song expulsion
Do away with this song and all of its revulsion

The birthday song is not a song when it's sixteen words long
Half of them are happy birthday that doesn't constitute a song
The wording is so ****** thin as thin as a snapped thong
And the musical arrangement isn't even strong

People should not sing this song not even a small bit
Why is it classed as a song we should stop singing it
Most of the words are the same and there is a lack of wit
So don't sing the birthday song cos it's not a song it's ****
marie Aug 2013
the first and second songs were beautiful ones
melodious and calming ones
about the beauty of nature
and how it does nothing yet so much
how it seems so dull yet beautiful
just like your eyes

the third song was an upbeat song
the kind of tunes that all would dance to
repetitive choruses and long instrumentals
like a circle, they remind me of your
so very long patience on things

the fourth song
was a song filled with raps and curses
talking about injustice and yet
it talks about *** and enjoying it
somehow however, it was nice to listen to
just like you when you get irritated
and yet, find happiness in the
little, irritating things

the fifth song was a song of nonsense
completely irrational
very messy
like paint splattered all over
a white wall
and yet so desirable
just like your smile
that you throw around
to everyone you see

you always thought the number six was
the devil's number
and found it cool
so i placed a song that makes people feel good about themselves
a song that was 'cool'
which was just like how you perceived yourself as
like how you always thought you were cool
and told me with a grin
and i always disagreed
with a little stupid smile of my own

the number seven was a special number to us
our common best friend's jersey number
your class number
my score in a two consecutive math quizzes
our little specialnumber
so i placed our song
a special song that you let me hear
after you heard me sing and said
"you have a nice voice, i think
this song would suit it."

i can never forget that song
so i have it on my mixtape too

you disliked the number eight
for some odd reason
which did not bother me
so i placed a song that irritated you
but made me happy
just to spite you
and to see you get flustered and ******
all at once like no one could
because i like
having you tell me everything you feel
like i do to you

number nine reminded you of
things that were ***** and pretty
so i placed a sensual song
that talked about a guy not deserving
his female admirer
who wanted to love him badly
physically and emotionally
because he did too
a song that was pure guitar
pure voice and soul
and raw emotions
that i believe would make you want to
sing along to it as well
like i do

the tenth song was a sad song
because once you failed a math quiz
with a mark of ten out of twenty
the same score as mine
but i didn't place a song that we both know
a song we both decided on
that was sad
no, instead
i put a song that i knew
but you didn't
which i believed was sadder
because it was like
how you treated me after
i gave you that letter
and made me sad
like this song

the eleventh and twelfth songs were made as one
but had to be cut off due to its length
it talked about a boy who wanted nothing more
than to keep the one he loved all to himself
a boy that flew
and crashed
for a girl that never knew

just like me
when i wanted nothing more
than to send you this mixtape
and have you say to me
a simple "thank you"

or maybe even
a little wishful
*"i love you too."
Hello and welcome to Glebe Park and there is a lot of excitement happening here to celebrate the first reconsilation day and on the main stage we had the griffin ensemble and the music they played was very calm and relaxing and there are a lot of different activities happening all over Glebe Park
Yes, the indigenous Australians will be happy but the day has only just began and about to come onto the main stage is the great dale Huddleston and he is known to be a rocker country singer and dale’s music is very good the first song is Arnhem Land dreams and the next song is an aborigine and I go walking
And dale has a great voice and has the crowd sitting there being thoroughly entertained
And he sang that with so much pride and the next song was written about a place called black fellas point and around me the crowd are walking and sitting buying food and one old man is tapping his foot, very exciting, yeah dale you know how to sing and you are a classic to play for reconciliation day here in Glebe Park
And the next song was about the simple things in life like when he wrote the song his daughter was being born and that was the happiest day of his life and he really treasured that day and now he is about to sing
Home is where the heart is which to me will mean you go off and have all these adventures but when you go home you feel love and looked after and he sings about water and listening to country music on the radio and many more exciting things but at the end of the day home is where the heart is
Dale Huddleston is now leaving the stage and he really showed us is version of aboriginal culture and he didn’t disappoint anyone in the crowd
The next singer is **** whose music represents aboriginal and Torres straight Islander rights
In this world and I can tell you he is a bit of a rapper but his music does really suit the occasion and now he is singing or rapping out the heavens opening up to create the rain coming down which he tries to get people to understand that we need to focus on being positive despite all the problems they have in the world and music especially his kind of rap does focus on the positive
They are talking about making reconsiliation an every day event not just today because if you did everyone would live in harmony with one another
The next act is the feature act named busby Marou and they are starting to sing loudly but cool as they sit up on the high seat this band is from Queensland and they are here celebrating aboriginal culture
They are showing Queensland’s great oceans and sunshine in their music which is a good thing for this wonderful day
This next song is titled full moon
And this song really explains the meaning of this day like as long as we respect that aborigines were on this land first it will be alright and after that they played a song called blue road which was written back in the early days and it has a great beat as well as a great meaning
So fantastic and if you remember the 90s when they had a song called my island home well busby marou did a version of it and I can tell you they are singing it with so much meaning saying whatever you do you must remember your island home will be waiting for you so just do whet you see fit
And each song explains whether or not you make mistakes and you could try and fix it and you fail But that doesn’t mean much because in life you can have fun
And if you play your cards right
You won’t fail as long as you don’t make anymore mistakes
The music is really moving and great and it has heaps of meaning of this day and then after that they played a classic cindy lauper hit girls just want to have fun which was dedicated to all the girls out there and each of the girls starting clapping, yes a very good version of that song
After that they started to play a song to keep the rain away from Glebe Park and as the played that song the sun pokes itself through the cloud, there is a wind but no rain and they make this rain song sounds cool doesn’t it and then they sang a song called the best part of me is you which has a lot of great meaning to it as well as having a lot of people sitting on the grass of the chairs really enjoying the music and they will finish with a song called paint this land which is their reconsiliation song which is an artists song as you look around people are painting pictures of this land from north to south and east to west great song this is
As we are sitting here enjoying the fun at Glebe Park for reconsiliation day we are going to see some great aboriginal music with the didgeridoo as they have got body paint on them and the music sounds quite nice and pleasant
And as the Chant went on two women came on and with the leaves they swept the land clean and yes, this is ever so great and doesn’t the didgeridoo sound great and I can see other people gathered behind the stage to continue this great music and after that they have some audience participation where they made them do a few arm movements and then they had a laugh saying I feel like chicken tonight like chicken tonight and that is what this day is about having a bit of a laugh and I believe aborigines need to have a day like this because it explains their culture and after that they brought all the kids down to do the kangaroo dance and this got the kids really excited and
Each kid is enjoying being kangaroos and we are up to the last act and it will be interested what interesting dances they will perform today, well the first dance is the paddle dance which has a catchy tune and an interesting tune and as I was waking away from the main stage I was walking over to the middle and busker and former voice star Lucy Sugerman playing a few of her very own songs and she is sounding very good as she has performed at events before but for her to be at the first reconsiliation day was a great opportunity for her
And she is playing her keyboard
Well her music I guess is great music for this day and then she sang a bob Dylan song and she sang it very well, well she has got a great voice
She certainly lets out plenty of meaning in her music and then as I was walking out I heard a blast from the 80s with the song let’s hear it for the boys but two great men singers and they make the song sound like it is really cool and I had a great time watching the reconsiliation day concert and I will definately be back next year
Catch ya
There is beneath us the progenitor and we call it “Mother”. Above us is the progenitor and we call it “Net” for it takes us and tosses us into the known and the unknown.

Our home star is not as bright as yours. We prefer your temperate lands when we visit, where the vegetation is lush and green. Those of us who remain inhabit your deserts and open spaces.

We are your brothers and sisters. Our development has been to grow in awareness and the development of our power. You have the potential to develop as we have, but your instincts are of a social group who need dominant members. You develop your material reality and your physical world. Your anchor is fixed and you grip the familiar and reject the unknown. There is a comfortable point where you feel the fullness, that is the anchor. In order to maintain this as a static point you develop belief systems to support it. This is your weakness, you are innocent children.

We grew and developed along another pathway, our anchor is not  rigid. We use Net for our anchor and so are able to change our perceptual reality. We move in ways that you do not understand and in any direction. We draw the fibers of Net around us and jump and fly. You see us only from your anchor point so that you see us change shape, appear and disappear.

Our voices and languages are barely accessible to you. You hear deep sounds and high pitched chirruping and whistling. Very few among you have remnants of language incorporating any of these. Those remaining are as clicks and whistles. We prefer direct communication.

We are masters of illusion. Our survival has depended on it and it is our instinct.
Our power developed so that when we pull around us the fibers of Net we create a shield and throw an illusion before those who depend on vision. It is one of our protections and also our hunting technique. We are hidden from your material probes and instruments of increased sight in this way.

Although we have been close neighbours for aeons, you have hardly seen us, except for the Few. Your interpretations have created problems for you. Your reliance on the anchor is so great that some among you do go to great lengths to maintain it. There are those among you who will silence the Few rather than lose the fixed anchor.

You are infants only, a seeding coming to fruition, and you play with dangerous toys. Your anchor is geocentric. You are in danger as is any youngster who plays with fire. If we showed you ourselves openly your rulers would not be gentle in their curiosity. We have technology and use material tools but we have had less to restrict us. We held back your development as much as we were able to enable you to develop power of the mind and independent thought.

Your grasp of Net is strong but you are rigid and anchored. You have learned to stand up and hold on. Now is the time to let go and walk, let go and run, let go and fly.

Around what you name “body” and believe to be “All” is more that you do not perceive with your restricted vision sense. You are aware of this. If you will learn acceptance and filter less from your senses, you will find the beauty of the universe of energy around you and available. A small perceptual shift would show you how you appear to those of us outside your narrow sphere.

Your body has filaments, which when translated to sight, appear as small moving threads which shine with rainbows. They move and ripple inside an energy body of light. This is your true body. It has abilities and senses that are dormant as you do not access them. They are accessible but as your anchor renders you blind to this you do not use them without intense effort or instinctively in extremity. The filaments are drawn together and pass through the anchor. Depending upon your ability to select filaments of the Net, your habitual plane and reality is selected and determined.
Those among you with abilities in your energy senses you ostracise and even ******. You succumb to misinformation to treat them as fools or freaks. This may be instinctive but it is a control mechanism to perpetuate the anchor and maintain the hive of your artificial society. So due to this, you have even less sense of true reality as it could be to you, by breeding out and suppressing your gifts. We have attempted to rectify this with limited effect in successive seedings.

You may notice that our words to you have reference to sight. Your terminology is geared to vision. You rely on visual information  so much that you have neglected physical senses of taste and smell, hearing, touch and proximity. Compared with our perceptions you are as blind as a mole is compared to to your visual abilities.

Your construction of reality is so anchored that your dangerous inclination to gather around you artifacts gives to you a sense of permanence. You are anchoring yourselves in time, yet to you it is dead because your senses are dead. There is an opportunity for your predators to use this to enforce your perception of, and control you within, your anchor's limitations. In this way, producing written or pictorial and symbolic records in permanent form is beneficial only so far as understanding continues to exist of the conditions under which these records were left. By changing current understanding and language to suit their purposes, your enforcers are able to manipulate your branch of humanity on a large scale.

You seal yourselves into the rejuvenation plane of the Mother progenitor where you feed and breed. It is so pleasurable to you to stay within this cocoon of reality that you fail to open your cast and therefore fail to fly into the spaces of Net outside where your true inheritance lies. The end result of this is greed and unrest. Your greed is paramount to you as you seek ever more pleasurable gratification. You enslave one another, buy and sell time and forget what you are. You are allowing the destruction of your home world. Without the home world you will have no place of rejuvenation, and worse neither will the myriads of others who share this progenitor.

There is a song from each mother progenitor within Net. It is a combined song and made up of the host progenitor together with silent voices of each and every life form. Together from each home world, the inhabitants send out a pulse. This is not a song from one species of a world but rather it is a song from all species, in fact every particle of every organism that lives.

To our developed senses the song of a world is brighter than the star it orbits. They are filaments of Net. The varied forms of life all send out their unique song. Many of us interact, harmonise, visit, commune and combine. You feel isolation only because you fail to harmonise and join your own song.

In your past and present we have felt the song of your world. Those of us belonging are part of that song. It is the song of being from the many. It does not end at the perimeters which you imagine. You have a problem in that, for the majority, you do not join your voices to the song. Mainly it is in dreaming, in childhood and in old age that we hear you.

We attempted to observe and commune and found many of you receptive to us. We have taught to you methods of development and given you gifts and tools. You have kept and preserved some of this knowledge only for a select few. Fears and distrust among others has caused destruction of a great proportion of the gifts that we have given to you. We found many lines of breeding where potential for development was possible. Your greed and your predator class destroyed many of them due to the competitive desire to have power over others.

In past seedings upon your progenitor and in the oldest times of your present incarnation, we have been known well and respected. Acknowledged for our seniority and loved as cousins. You did call us gods to distinguish our abilities. Then what did you do? Your control mechanisms changed the meanings of your language, whole languages were lost in wars over territory. You developed power structures and religions. Powerful rulers accumulated and isolated your shared knowledge.

You reduced your development by selective education in the Way. Territorial disputes and greed over resources divided you. You ceased to listen to the Mother. Instead of harmonious living which you had managed in agreement with each other already, you were divided by hormonal impulses, insecurity, violence and greed. The natural openness of the female within it's central domain became enclosed, imprisoned and the natural desire of the male to outwardly discover and interact was turned inwards until it became a sedentary desire for dominance within the female domain. You lost the harmonics of the song. Your religions underestimate the power of borrowed tools. Your ruling classes made deals that they didn't understand, with predators they didn't recognise, in order to save themselves.

We stood on ground over ground and were called Immortals. We gave you wisdom and were called Kings. We moved and played among you and were called Jinn. We moved among the small folk and were called Faerie. We appeared in light and were called Angels. We wandered in places where you too did once wander and were called Ghosts and Demons. Those who spoke to us and attempted to impart to your hive our knowledge, you raised as prophets or slandered and ridiculed. You stole their words to make them your own words of power, changing them to your own ends or you murdered the messengers because you feared the changes that increased understanding brings.

You incorporated the experiences of your murdered victims into a celebration of your own power structures, twisted and out of synchronisation with the song. There are some among you who are in communion with the Great Spirit of life. We seek to heal your song, your complete home world song for the benefit of the myriad sentient beings who rejuvenate here, including yourselves. We seek to set you free to wander the threads of Net. It is within your reach but not in the ways that you  are taught.

Your world is about to change and you must change with it as you are a small part of it. Holding the threads into your own anchor point will break them. You have reached inertia, entropy. The movement has to come, it is inevitable. Imagine one of your large machines of cogs and wheels and bars. Your insistence upon a rigid anchor is like a bar within the machine that doesn't move. A point of inertia in a moving system will be removed. This has happened over and over among your kind and our kind in many places and worlds. You do not remember when worlds underwent cataclysm, forgetful of trauma you have followed a similar path.

We travel along pathways of energy, both upon worlds and in the Net. Moving bodies follow these paths. We follow comets and small bodies able to move freely within Net. Net permeates your mother progenitor.

Survivors mapped the movements of Net after the slate was wiped clean and you were reseeded. There is a secret that your rulers are aware of and you are not. The secret is that there are no rulers within Net. You all have the freedom and capability to access true harmony of the song. You allow a faction, to call themselves an elite class. You fear this as a hidden power, a predator. It's aim is to amass Time: a power based on material wealth. They take this power easily as they have taken and twisted truth and history. The gifts are shared among you equally and these few know this. Resources are plentiful and yet you succumb to their restrictions. A predator cannot survive without it's prey. We are not your predators although we move among you. Your predator is within and feeds upon your fear.

You are not in the tribes now, you have no shaman, no guide to take you in and out of the gate and this role cannot be allocated to parasitic Blind Time Hoarders. These whip up your passions and lead you into war and destruction to further their material wealth. It leads you away from the song, as these think to enhance their own survival which it may do but never can as they understand it. They seek to steal your dreams and make them their own, they are helpless without you. They care nothing for the song because they are aware of successive seedings.

Net is a dream reality, changing, immeasurable, boundless, filled with infinite possibilities and you are creators. Blind time hoarders drive you by combining the minds and dreams and belief systems of many to focus onto what they themselves desire, in order to bring it to fruition. They employ dream stealers to prevent your development. They believe that their own song can exist independently and they guide you only to anchor yourselves into your own prison.

All is a dream, all is ephemeral, changing, dynamic. There is no death after death, no damnation on any particular plane. Reality is how you construct your song. Your rulers create inertia for you the many and profit for themselves using you as the tools of your own entrapment. There is no death and no damnation, they are constructs of your reality made by material anchor points and you are controlled by fear of the inevitable. It is a statecraft to use belief systems to control perceptions of reality in order to fix the anchor point to a rigid point of convenience. In this way you are farmed, you are a crop in each seeding. Who seeds you? You seed yourselves. Sentient beings are all naturally regenerated by the mechanisms of Net when conditions exist that are compatible, world after world, in each growth cycle of every celestial body. In the regeneration, holding to your rigid anchor point, you seed into your prison after each cataclysm, each breaking of the inertia.

If you would be open to the mechanisms of the place you inhabit with it's creative forces, it's sentience and it's dynamics you will learn to fly the progenitor Net's pathways and return home for rejuvenation to your progenitor Mother of the tribes.
I wrote this a few years ago. It's a bit long
1

When lilacs last in the door-yard bloom’d,
And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night,
I mourn’d—and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring;
Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,
And thought of him I love.

2

O powerful, western, fallen star!
O shades of night! O moody, tearful night!
O great star disappear’d! O the black murk that hides the star!
O cruel hands that hold me powerless! O helpless soul of me!
O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul!

3

In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the white-wash’d palings,
Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume strong I love,
With every leaf a miracle……and from this bush in the door-yard,
With delicate-color’d blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,
A sprig, with its flower, I break.

4

In the swamp, in secluded recesses,
A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

Solitary, the thrush,
The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,
Sings by himself a song.

Song of the bleeding throat!
Death’s outlet song of life—(for well, dear brother, I know
If thou wast not gifted to sing, thou would’st surely die.)

5

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,
Amid lanes, and through old woods, (where lately the violets peep’d from the ground, spotting the gray debris;)
Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes—passing the endless grass;
Passing the yellow-spear’d wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprising;
Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards;
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,
Night and day journeys a coffin.

6

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,
Through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land,
With the pomp of the inloop’d flags, with the cities draped in black,
With the show of the States themselves, as of crape-veil’d women, standing,
With processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the night,
With the countless torches lit—with the silent sea of faces, and the unbared heads,
With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,
With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn;
With all the mournful voices of the dirges, pour’d around the coffin,
The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—Where amid these you journey,
With the tolling, tolling bells’ perpetual clang;
Here! coffin that slowly passes,
I give you my sprig of lilac.

7

(Nor for you, for one, alone;
Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring:
For fresh as the morning—thus would I carol a song for you, O sane and sacred death.

All over bouquets of roses,
O death! I cover you over with roses and early lilies;
But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,
Copious, I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes;
With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,
For you, and the coffins all of you, O death.)

8

O western orb, sailing the heaven!
Now I know what you must have meant, as a month since we walk’d,
As we walk’d up and down in the dark blue so mystic,
As we walk’d in silence the transparent shadowy night,
As I saw you had something to tell, as you bent to me night after night,
As you droop’d from the sky low down, as if to my side, (while the other stars all look’d on;)
As we wander’d together the solemn night, (for something, I know not what, kept me from sleep;)
As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west, ere you went, how full you were of woe;
As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze, in the cold transparent night,
As I watch’d where you pass’d and was lost in the netherward black of the night,
As my soul, in its trouble, dissatisfied, sank, as where you, sad orb,
Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.

9

Sing on, there in the swamp!
O singer bashful and tender! I hear your notes—I hear your call;
I hear—I come presently—I understand you;
But a moment I linger—for the lustrous star has detain’d me;
The star, my departing comrade, holds and detains me.

10

O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?
And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?
And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love?

Sea-winds, blown from east and west,
Blown from the eastern sea, and blown from the western sea, till there on the prairies meeting:
These, and with these, and the breath of my chant,
I perfume the grave of him I love.

11

O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?
And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,
To adorn the burial-house of him I love?

Pictures of growing spring, and farms, and homes,
With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright,
With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air;
With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific;
In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there;
With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows;
And the city at hand, with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,
And all the scenes of life, and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.

12

Lo! body and soul! this land!
Mighty Manhattan, with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships;
The varied and ample land—the South and the North in the light—Ohio’s shores, and flashing Missouri,
And ever the far-spreading prairies, cover’d with grass and corn.

Lo! the most excellent sun, so calm and haughty;
The violet and purple morn, with just-felt breezes;
The gentle, soft-born, measureless light;
The miracle, spreading, bathing all—the fulfill’d noon;
The coming eve, delicious—the welcome night, and the stars,
Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.

13

Sing on! sing on, you gray-brown bird!
Sing from the swamps, the recesses—pour your chant from the bushes;
Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.

Sing on, dearest brother—warble your reedy song;
Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.

O liquid, and free, and tender!
O wild and loose to my soul! O wondrous singer!
You only I hear……yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart;)
Yet the lilac, with mastering odor, holds me.

14

Now while I sat in the day, and look’d forth,
In the close of the day, with its light, and the fields of spring, and the farmer preparing his crops,
In the large unconscious scenery of my land, with its lakes and forests,
In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb’d winds, and the storms;)
Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women,
The many-moving sea-tides,—and I saw the ships how they sail’d,
And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor,
And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages;
And the streets, how their throbbings throbb’d, and the cities pent—lo! then and there,
Falling upon them all, and among them all, enveloping me with the rest,
Appear’d the cloud, appear’d the long black trail;
And I knew Death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.

15

Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,
And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,
And I in the middle, as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions,
I fled forth to the hiding receiving night, that talks not,
Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness,
To the solemn shadowy cedars, and ghostly pines so still.

And the singer so shy to the rest receiv’d me;
The gray-brown bird I know, receiv’d us comrades three;
And he sang what seem’d the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.

From deep secluded recesses,
From the fragrant cedars, and the ghostly pines so still,
Came the carol of the bird.

And the charm of the carol rapt me,
As I held, as if by their hands, my comrades in the night;
And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.

DEATH CAROL.

16

Come, lovely and soothing Death,
Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,
In the day, in the night, to all, to each,
Sooner or later, delicate Death.

Prais’d be the fathomless universe,
For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious;
And for love, sweet love—But praise! praise! praise!
For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death.

Dark Mother, always gliding near, with soft feet,
Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?

Then I chant it for thee—I glorify thee above all;
I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.

Approach, strong Deliveress!
When it is so—when thou hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead,
Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee,
Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death.

From me to thee glad serenades,
Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee—adornments and feastings for thee;
And the sights of the open landscape, and the high-spread sky, are fitting,
And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.

The night, in silence, under many a star;
The ocean shore, and the husky whispering wave, whose voice I know;
And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veil’d Death,
And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.

Over the tree-tops I float thee a song!
Over the rising and sinking waves—over the myriad fields, and the prairies wide;
Over the dense-pack’d cities all, and the teeming wharves and ways,
I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death!

17

To the tally of my soul,
Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird,
With pure, deliberate notes, spreading, filling the night.

Loud in the pines and cedars dim,
Clear in the freshness moist, and the swamp-perfume;
And I with my comrades there in the night.

While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,
As to long panoramas of visions.

18

I saw askant the armies;
And I saw, as in noiseless dreams, hundreds of battle-flags;
Borne through the smoke of the battles, and pierc’d with missiles, I saw them,
And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and ******;
And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in silence,)
And the staffs all splinter’d and broken.

I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,
And the white skeletons of young men—I saw them;
I saw the debris and debris of all the dead soldiers of the war;
But I saw they were not as was thought;
They themselves were fully at rest—they suffer’d not;
The living remain’d and suffer’d—the mother suffer’d,
And the wife and the child, and the musing comrade suffer’d,
And the armies that remain’d suffer’d.

19

Passing the visions, passing the night;
Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades’ hands;
Passing the song of the hermit bird, and the tallying song of my soul,
(Victorious song, death’s outlet song, yet varying, ever-altering song,
As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night,
Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy,
Covering the earth, and filling the spread of the heaven,
As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,)
Passing, I leave thee, lilac with heart-shaped leaves;
I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring,
I cease from my song for thee;
From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee,
O comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night.

20

Yet each I keep, and all, retrievements out of the night;
The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird,
And the tallying chant, the echo arous’d in my soul,
With the lustrous and drooping star, with the countenance full of woe,
With the lilac tall, and its blossoms of mastering odor;
With the holders holding my hand, nearing the call of the bird,
Comrades mine, and I in the midst, and their memory ever I keep—for the dead I loved so well;
For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands…and this for his dear sake;
Lilac and star and bird, twined with the chant of my soul,
There in the fragrant pines, and the cedars dusk and dim.
My song is a song that is rarely sung.
It is not a popular one.
My song is an unfamiliar tune.
Which very few will listen to.
It is a song of Love.
It is my calling from Above.
My song is a song which will revolutionize the world.
And transform the human heart.
My song took Me to a rugged cross.
My song is the song of Sacrifice.
It is not a popular one.
For it is a song of Love.
A song of the rose.
In a world of thorns.
A crown of thorns upon My brow.
I sang My song to rescue all.
From the Fall.
My song is the song of the Lamb.
My song is the song of the great I AM.
My song is a song of Love.
Which very few will listen to.
Will you?
"For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son,
that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life."--John 3:16.
Bergen Franklin May 2015
I am singing a song of singing!
it a song of singing a song!
you sing when you sing a song of singing
because you are singing!
a song!
lla lalaaallaalalalaala'
that is singing a song
for singing has doe,
which are dear
and deer are dear
and dear have no dough so
they are pointless to rob.
unless your name is ray,
who is singing
a song of singing
becuase he is a singing a song of dough, on doe,
and this song it makes doe dough grow
with the sing of the singing of the song!
singing like me
who i call myself
since ray is not me, he is a ***!
a *** who is singing a song, a song about being sung!
i am singing a song of singing!
it a song of singing a song!
you sing when you sing a song of singing
because you are singing!
a song!
2/22/07
ROBERTA FLACK LYRICS
Play Music
"Killing Me Softly With His Song"

Strumming my pain with his fingers
Singing my life with his words
Killing me softly with his song
Killing me softly with his song
Telling my whole life with his words
Killing me softly with his song

I heard he sang a good song
I heard he had a style
And so I came to see him
To listen for a while
And there he was this young boy
A stranger to my eyes

Strumming my pain with his fingers
Singing my life with his words
Killing me softly with his song
Killing me softly with his song
Telling my whole life with his words
Killing me softly with his song

I felt all flushed with fever
Embarassed by the crowd
I felt he found my letters
And read each one out loud
I prayed that he would finish
But he just kept right on

Strumming my pain with his fingers
Singing my life with his words
Killing me softly with his song
Killing me softly with his song
Telling my whole life with his words
Killing me softly with his song

He sang as if he knew me
In all my dark despair
And then he looked right through me
As if I wasn't there
And he just kept on singing
Singing clear and strong

Strumming my pain with his fingers
Singing my life with his words
Killing me softly with his song
Killing me softly with his song
Telling my whole life with his words
Killing me softly with his song

[Break]

Strumming my pain with his fingers
Singing my life with his words
Killing me softly with his song
Killing me softly with his song
Telling my whole life with his words
Killing me

He was strumming my pain
Yeah, he was singing my life
Killing me softly with his song
Killing me softly with his song
Telling my whole life with his words
Killing me softly
With his song
Adelaide Knight Feb 2018
Silvery flakes drifted downward.
Glittering in the bright light of the harvest moon.
The blackbird soared.
Singing soulfully his melodious song.
Pale blue light glinting off his feathers.
From the luminescent moon above.
Everywhere he went other birds chimed in.
Adding their glorious tunes to the blackbirds song.

Little eyes clouded with sleep
Peeked through shuttered windows
Searching for the source of the joyous song that woke them.

Parents listened through cracked entry doors, listening to the tune of sorrow they heard.

The elders listened, wizened by age, each hearing a different tune.
Some of joy.
Some of sorrow.
Some of pain.
And some of love.

It was as if the world herself stopped to hear’
The everflowing song of her children.
The song of the blackbird rung throughout the night.
Bouncing off trees.
Dancing in the snow.
Skimming the seasides.
Climbing up the steepest mountains.

Crooks and frauds heard his tune
His tune of redemption and guilt.
Murderers and thieves wept at his cries
His cries of forgiveness and mercy.

The deaf heard his song.
The blind saw through his eyes.
The dumb sang his tune.
The lame danced to his glorious melody.

The old felt young, and the young felt complete.
The blackbird changed his tune.

He sung of pain.
He sung of sorrow.
He sung of war.
He sung of death.
In the blackbirds tune joy sounded no more.

Soldiers laid down their arms.
Drowned in the feelings this new song awoke.

Angry wives, and wrathful husbands, lost their fight.

Unruly children once loud and bold.
Became silent and still.
Cooing infants began to cry.

The blackbird sang his song louder.
Praying to his mother.
That the people would listen to his words.
Hear his please for peace.
Feel his sorrow at loss.

And they heard.
Oh, how they heard.
They drowned in his pleas.
They cried in his pain.
Trembled with his sorrow filled tune.
They heard and they wept.
Wishing for this tune to stop.
Praying to the elders for his tune of joy to return.

The blackbirds song changed for the final time.
He sang of peace.
He sang of joy.
He sang of laughter.
He sang of delight
He sang to the elders for their guidance this night.

He sang of parents living happily with their children.

Of the lame dancing through towns.
Of the dumb singing his song and spreading his pleas.
Of the blind seeing through him, and showing others the way.
Of the deaf hearing his song, and singing along.
Of children giggling through the years.
Of infants, cooing,  growing from one year to the next.

The earth listened and heard.
She sang with her son.

The birds once more chimed in.
The insects buzzing in delight.
The wolves howling through the pale moonlight.

The night sang loud and true.
With the blackbirds song.
Not a soul left deaf to its beauty.
No infant left unhappy.
Not a child left sad or scared.
No adult left fearing what came next.
And no elder left fearing death.

He sang loud.
He sang true.

The blackbird sang his tune.
As the silvery flakes drifted downward.
Glittering under the pale harvest moon light.
The blackbird soared.
Singing his melodious song.
The wolves howling gaily.
The insects Buzzing peacefully.

The earth listening to her child sing.

Throughout the night.
For the rest of their days.
All who heard his song that night.
Never forgot the beauty they’d heard.
Neither did they forget the pain they had felt.
Forever remembering the peace that followed.

The blackbird soared.
High through the night.
Never ending his song rung.
The tune that made the earth stop.
To listen to its sound.
The melody that made nature sway.
Caught in a dance of pain and beauty.

The song that made.
The whole world sing.

The blackbird soared into nights dark embrace.
Never to return but in the worlds dream.
Singing his song, he soared along.

The blackbird soared.


-Scarlett Evelyn
Cailey Weaver Jan 2014
It took so long to decide what to sing to you.
So I wrote this song just for you.
Sometimes you have to,
Take the bull by the horns and sing,

Uh uh, Uh uh
That Same Old Song...
And it goes,

Up and down again,
Each and every day, it comes,
It comes around again!
That Same Old Song.

And though the years go by,
And now I'm old enough to fly,
That song it stays the same!
That Same Old Song...

Sometimes, I know, my head isn't in the right place
I know, you would, like to break my neck some days,
But you, always, find a way to put a smile on my face,

And we sing, Uh uh
That Same Old Song...
And it goes,

Up and down again,
Each and every day, it comes,
It comes around again!
That Same Old Song.

And though the years go by,
And now I'm old enough to fly,
That song it stays the same!
That Same Old Song...

And even though, sometimes we fight,
You help me jump, and reach new heights!
Sometimes you have to,
Take the bull by the horns and sing,

Uh uh, Uh uh
That Same Old Song...
And it goes,

Up and down again,
Each and every day, it comes,
It comes around again!
That Same Old Song.

And though the years go by,
And now I'm old enough to fly,
That song it stays the same!
That Same Old Song...
That Same Old Song...
That Same Old Song!
Here's another of my Original Songs!
If you want to hear it, here's the youtube link:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eENF8-5cklQ

Enjoy!
Sitting on the patio, drinking margaritas

Letting summers glow wash over me

Listening to the radio, taking in the summertime

Sitting, being single being free

Suddenly, "our song" came on

The first time that I'd heard it

Freezing me just exactly where I was

Overcome with feelings, I almost had a fit

We'd been married nearly 15 years

And this song, it defined us

But at that minute on the patio

I'd been thrown I was making quite a fuss

At first I went to change it

Turn the station, find another

Then I took another sip

And sat down with my Mother

She said "I always like that singer, dear"

"I thought you liked him too'

"Didn't you dance to one of his songs"

"When you wed in ninety two?"

I said I did and it was playing

Didn't want to hear it though

She said "Why, it's just some music dear,"

"It'll help the feelings go"

"I know it hurts at first to hear"

"And be taken to the past"

"But, the heart will heal so quickly"

"And you'll forget about the past"

I sat back and I listened,

To the singer and his song

"San Francisco Mabel Joy"

and I knew she wasn't wrong

His voice, the words so pleasing

New memories would I find

I would take this song of sixpence

And I would hide it in my mind

We danced to it in Frisco

Saw Mickey Newbury at a bar

And it etched into my consciousness

And it never ventured far

For every time we heard it

"Our song" as we would say

We'd dance no matter where we were

And we would listen to him play

So here I am twenty years on

From the first time that it got me

Sitting drinking with my mother

Being single, being free

I wasn 't going to lose it

Miss out on this piece of music

Just because my life changed

I was just divorced, not sick

I wondered about Mabel Joy

and listened to his words

And I thought about their heartbreak

As I listened to the birds

I thought "would he be listening"

"Would he feel the same"

"Was it just our song to me?"

"Did he even know it's name?

A few songs later, we went in

And we ordered in some food

I went down to the basement

At the risk of being rude

"I'll be right back" I told my mum

I had to find that song

And I pulled out the old album

That "Mabel Joy" was first played on

I thought of all the good times

Sat, and held the record near

Then I let them empty from my head

There was none that I'd hold dear

Across town at the very time

"Mabel Joy" was on the air

The other half of "our song"

Was just sitting in his chair

He thought, she used to like that song

Although I don't know why

We'd always dance when it came on

And she would always cry

He went to turn it over

but the voice went to his core

So he sat down and he listened

to "....frisco Mabel Joy" some more

He thought, that ain't a bad tune

It's one that tells the facts

So, he popped another beer cap off

And he sat back to relax

Across town in the kitchen

It was then she chose to laugh

Beside the title , "Our song"

written by her other half

So , it once meant something to them both

It's what made them both believe

That music makes you whole

The heart's hard to decieve

Across town, he thought about the tune

And who the singer was

He knew it wasn't chapin

and he though it was "The Boss"

He thought, I might go out and find

The cd, by that guy

Even though it used to be "our song"

it never made me cry

Now, back inside the kitchen

drinking more than being fed

She pulled out the lp, for to play

Before she went to bed

"San Francisco Mabel Joy"

was the third song on side two

She would listen till "our song" was done

And her mind would fill with new

Memories of this great song

Sitting drinking with her Ma

And these memories would stay with her

They never would venture far

So if you have an "our song"

Put it on, go back in time

For when you exorcise your demons

That's when "our song" becomes "Mine"!
Aa Harvey Apr 2018
Soppy Love Song.


Take your tears girl and wash them all away,
Take my hand girl and come lead me astray.
I'll protect you girl, now and always;
You'll be safe with me, each and every day.


Take your arms girl and wrap them 'round my waist;
Hold me tight girl come, brighten up my day.
Hold me close girl then, see the smile on my face;
Hold me next to you, now and always.


This is just a-nother soppy love song,
This is just a, soppy love song.
This is just a-nother soppy love song,
This is just a, soppy love song.


Show me things girl that, no-one else has seen;
Show me you girl so, I can show you the real me.
Take your love girl and send your heart my way;
I'll take care of it, I will keep you safe.


Another day of joy, for both of us;
Know in me girl, you can put your trust.
Know that when it's, just the two of us,
With me girl you can, share all of your love
And all of your thoughts; the good and the bad.
The things that make you happy
And the things that make you sad.


This is just a-nother soppy love song,
This is just a, soppy love song.
This is just a-nother soppy love song,
This is just a, soppy love song.


Throw away those fears, let me hold you.
Wash away those tears; know I'm here for you.
Turn the other cheek, when they hurt you;
Let me kiss your cheek, see I love you.


I am here girl, just to make you smile.
I'd tickle your feet, to stop the tears you cry
And turn the sadness; into a giggle.
With you girl I want to be, stuck in the middle.


This is just a-nother soppy love song,
This is just a, soppy love song.
This is just a-nother soppy love song,
This is just a, soppy love song.


If you need me girl, then just ask me to stay.
I am here for you and I will ease your pain.
If you want time to yourself, then I'll go away;
But I'll be back tomorrow, to put a smile on your face.


Hold me now girl, let me be released;
From the hurt and pain, that each of us feels.
Take my sympathy and show me empathy;
Keep me near to you, let me become free.


This is just a-nother soppy love song,
This is just a, soppy love song.
This is just a-nother soppy love song,
This is just a, soppy love song.


(C)2006 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Sofia Paderes Oct 2013
My head and my heart
know only one song.

This song has no title
no artist
no album
no genre
unless you consider every person who had ever whispered this song
from cracked lips and dried up throats
or had hummed its tune in monotonous habit until it became nothing
but a humdrum sing-a-long, pass-it-on
religious routine with each letter sounding
outlandishly familiar to something forever etched in their memory.

My mother taught me this song
when I was two years old
because a decade minus eight is the age where you start remembering things like
the shape of your mouth when you’re forming the letter O
how it’s supposed to feel when it’s been struck and
how you’re supposed to not fight back
how you’re supposed to accept that you’re the weak one
how you’re just supposed to always and forever just sing
this one song.

“This
is the song your father
and his father
and his father’s father
and all their grandfathers’ great grandfathers
sang.
This
is the song that began
our end,”
is what my mother told me before she taught me
and before her lips could form the first vowel
before her throat could carry the first syllable
I knew.

I knew that this song
was a fallen hymn
drenched in desperation
its words only there to fill in the deafening silence
and like cheap cement
only meant to repair
but not to mend.
A tune that would put you to sleep
in order for you not to notice
the truth swept up under the rug
A ballad of blood
and ash
enough to fill up your lungs
and flow through your veins until its lies crawled up,
tainted and tattooed your skin
to produce scars for the world to see
scars for the world to label me
and say,
“Ah. She is her mother’s daughter.”

And when my mother finally sang the song,
I could feel the deceit and betrayal electrifying the air
adding to the illusion this twisted symphony
created that this
is the only song we can sing
this
is the only song
we were meant to bring
with us from cradle to grave.
I could hear hatred
notes of ignorance
chords of discord
something was wrong with the harmony
and I cried,
“Change the song!”
My mother sang on.
“Change the song!”
My father started to blend.
“Change the song!”
My grandmother came as a third voice.
“Change the song!”
My grandfather started to tap his feet to the beat.

And I realized that more than three hundred and thirty three years ago
someone had hummed a fa
had pressed a piano key
had written one verse
had been forced to scream out the bridge with chains on their wrists
crevices on their faces left by the tears that ran down the same path
enough times to make riverbeds
had passed the song down to his daughter
and her daughter
and her daughter’s great granddaughters
and had never stopped writing the lyrics since

There was an awkward rest in the song
as if someone had dared to stop continuing
had put the pen down
had tried to write truth instead of lies
but had died with the song of insurgency
and I asked my father whose blood it was
and he answered,
“Someone who asked questions.”
So I asked him who I was
and he answered,
“Nobody.”

But here I stand
here you stand
knowing the truth that has resurfaced
after being smothered by greed and power
century after century
curse after curse
thorn after thorn
I grew up asking questions
and I’m asking them again.
Are you going to be the first one
to erase the words?
Are you going to be the first one
to drown them out with freedom shouts?
Are you going to be the first one
to lay the pen down?
Because if you won’t, then I will
so that one day, my daughters will know
and carry this in their hearts,
Ang  mamatay  nang  dahil  sa  *iyo
A spoken word poem written for my school's spoken word competition finals. The question was, "What can Filipino Christians do to make an impact on this nation?"

The last line of this poem is the last line of the Philippine National Anthem, Lupang Hinirang.
write me a holiday song
one that doesn't revolve around lies
one that is full of the lows and the highs
not It's a Wonderful Life in disguise

Dad not quite sober
Gifts not all wrapped
Hugs from old aunties
In the hallway you're trapped
Write me a holiday song

Moms' in the kitchen
The kids by the tree
The men all are waiting
For dinner at three
Write me a holiday song

Life's not all wrapped up
With holiday bows
Christmas in real life
Is not Rudolph's nose
Write me a holiday song

People all argue
Fights will break out
Kids all are screaming
The good will's gone out
Write me a holiday song

write me a holiday song
one that doesn't revolve around lies
one that is full of the lows and the highs
not It's a Wonderful Life in disguise

The aunts and the uncles
and all other kin
Go to church Christmas Eve
To be absolved of their sins
Write me a holiday song

I'm sure Norman Rockwell
Didn't have real life in mind
When those Post cover pictures
He sat down and designed
Write me a holiday song

Bing Crosby is singing
While the massacre starts
Of the ham and the turkey
And other odd parts
Write me a holiday song

Stuff not on the table
Stuff left in the car
Eighteen conversations
Frozen beer in the car
Write me a holiday song

The facade is cracking
Real life has snuck in
Christmas is not a movie
It's just lead painted tin
Write me a holiday song

No one remembers
The bad times of the past
It just took a moment
It all happened so fast
Write me a holiday song

write me a holiday song
one that doesn't revolve around lies
one that is full of the lows and the highs
not It's a Wonderful Life in disguise

Write me a holiday song
One of truths and of memories
Of all that went wrong
I think I will smile
And I might sing along
Please write me a holiday song
Write me a holiday song
If I like it...I will sing along
dennis gunsteen Aug 2010
joy joy it's christmas little one.
on this christmas day .
hear are favorite songs
song  christmas song of joy.
on this christmas day.
song of christmas
song of cheer.
on this christmas day.
hear the angel sing.
joy  joy it's christmas little one.
hear sled bells ring little one.
it's christmas  time little one.
sing the song of christmas.
sing the song of cheer .
hear are favorite song.
joy joy it's  christmas little one.
hear angel sing.
on this christmas day.
hear children play.
joy joy it's christmas little one.
on this christmas day.
hear are favorite songs.
song of christmas song of joy.
on this christmas day.
song of christmas.
song of cheer .
on this christmas day.
hear angels sing.
on  this holy day.
on this christmas day.
joy joy it's christmas  little one.
hear the sled bell ring little one.
it's christmas time little one.
sing the song of christmas.
sing the song of cheer.
it's christmas time little one.
hear are favorite song.
sing  3x  a song
Sibyl Vane Mar 2014
"She will dance with me,"
He murmured to himself,
"If I bring her a white rose,
Pure as a snowflake,
And sweet as a summer day."

Sitting there in the garden,
His blue eyes fell shut
As the wind ran her fingers
Through his dark hair.
His lips parted in a sigh,
Enjoying the warm afternoon sun
And the thoughts of the one he loves.

"His is the song I've sung
My entire life,"
Chirped the little nightingale,
"Without knowing it,
I have told his story a thousand times
To the moon and the stars
That light the night sky.
I've sung of hope and joy
And True Love and
Happily Ever Afters
To the trees and the flowers
That in this garden grow."

But the young man cried,
"But I have no rose to give her!"
He covered his face with his hands
And cried.
His whole body shook
As the hope for real love,
The kind that many people
Spend their whole lives looking for
In all the wrong places,
Flew away in the wind.
"She'll never realize I am the one for her,
If I cannot find a white rose
And ask her to dance,"
He cried.

The little nightingale's heart was touched
By the young lover.
She cried out her song for him,
For all the lost loves in the world.
He, she determined, was not going to be one of them.
The nightingale decided that
She would find him a rose,
With which he could woo the girl he so loved.

She flew on delicate wings to the rose bush
That grew beside the fountain.
"If you would give me a pure white rose,
I will sing you my sweetest song
All the nights of my life."
But the rose bush answered,
"I have only yellow roses,
Bright as lemons and sunshine,
And sweet as springtime honey.
Ask my brother who climbs the arbor,
He may give you what you desire."

So the sweet nightingale flew to the rose vine
That was tangled on the arbor.
"If you would give me a pure white rose,
I will sing you my sweetest song
All the nights of my life."
But the rose vine replied,
"I have only pink roses,
Pink as a maiden's blush
On the day she weds her beau.
Ask my brother who grows
Under the young man's window.
He may give you what you desire."

So the nightingale flew to the rose bush
That grew under the young man's window.
"If you would give me a pure white rose,
I will sing you my sweetest song
All the nights of my life."
To which the rose bush replied,
"I have only red roses,
Dark and rich as faerie wine,
Red as the blood of your heart,
Sweeter than stolen kisses under the moon.
But I can give you a white rose."
Filled with hope and joy,
The nightingale replied,
"I will give anything for a white rose,
What must I do?"
The rose bush shook its petals sadly.
"The way is too awful.
I cannot tell you."
The nightingale knew the value of love;
She would do anything for the rose.
"There is a way, little bird.
By moonlight you must come close
And press you breast against my thorns.
Love is sharp and you must not be afraid.
You must sing your sweetest song all night,
And press closer to me,
Until my thorn pierces your heart
And all your heart-blood runs out.
It is the only way."

The nightingale thought about this.
"What price would not be paid for love?
How much greater is the love of this young man
Than the life of a little bird?
This I will gladly do,
For true love's sake."

So the nightingale flew across the garden,
Where the lover had not yet dried
The tears from his eyes.
His cheeks were stained
Pink with his sadness,
His eyes shimmered with tears yet unreleased.
She sang to him to be hopeful,
To believe in his love,
And that all will be well.
The blue-eyed young man
Smiled at the nightingale,
For her song was beautiful,
Though he did not understand.

The nightingale flew about the garden,
Enjoying the beauty of life.
She sang to the oak trees and the daffodils,
And they wept that they would not hear her song again.
They were comforted that she would be silenced for love,
For love has no price too great.

The earth ate the last rays of the sun
And the moon shone
Wan and pallid in the night sky.
She, too, was sad to hear only this one last song
From the nightingale.

Then the bird flew to the red rose bush
And pressed her breast against the thorn.
She sang her sweetest song.
It was so beautiful that all the dead lovers of the world
Shuddered in their graves
With the reminder of the love in life,
The wind joined her voice with the nightingale's
And carried her song to the ends of the the earth,
To the darkest caves where Echo returned it,
To the ocean's waves that kept the time,
To the peaceful moors where the grass danced along,
To the sleeping child to give her sweet dreams.

"Closer, closer!"
Urged the rose bush,
"I must taste your heart's blood
Before dawn,
Or the rose will not be done."

So the nightingale pressed closer still to the thorn
As the rose bush spun the most beautiful rose
It had ever spun.
But red! A red red rose it was.
"Closer still!"
Cried the rose bush,
And the nightingale pressed closer until her heart was pricked.
A bolt of pain struck the nightingale
And her song rang out through the garden,
Her melody, sweet with love and anguish,
Reached the ears of the young man.
He sat up in his bed,
And was so moved by the nightingale's song,
He stayed awake to listen.

As the nightingale's heart-blood poured onto the rose,
The reddest rose washed white as a freshly fallen snow,
Her tears mingled with the blood,
For only blood can wash out blood,
And only tears can heal.
And so the red rose became white,
As dewdrops and starlight,
As the nightingale's voice grew faint.
And she fell to the ground as the first breath of dawn
Shone gray on the horizon.

The whole garden heaved a sigh
As the nightingale's song was done.
A chorus of flowers and crickets and wind
Sang their mournful song
For the little nightingale
Who gave her life for love.

When the sun had risen in the sky,
The young man walked out into the garden
And saw the white rose.
Carefully he cut it, admiring its beauty.
He did not notice the nightingale,
Laying dead on the ground.

He gazed at the rose in awe,
And inhaled its damask perfume.
It smelled of starlight and sweet dreams,
Of mothers' lullabies and midnight kisses,
Of laughter and heartache,
Of True Love and tender death.

"This is the rose for my beloved,"
He said to himself,
And he prepared himself for the ball.

That night, when the sun had set again,
He met his fair lady, whom he so dearly loved.
"This rose is for you, so that you will dance with me."
He handed her the rose, the white rose with no thorns.
She took it gently, breathing in its scent.

"Dear boy, I will dance with you tonight."

He took her hand and led her out onto the floor.
They danced and danced
All through the evening,
More than rules of decency allow.
She smiled and laughed and fell in love.

When the evening closed
And it was time to go home,
She held the white rose close to her heart
And breathed in its sweet perfume.
Her heart was happy
And faintly, a nightingale's song
Seemed to whisper in her ear.
She grabbed the young man by the hand,
The man whom she loved.

"I will dance with you all the nights of my life,
If you so desire," she whispered.
"My darling, I desire no more," the young man smiled,
His blue eyes sparkling in the lamplight.

For love is a silly thing.
It is not half so useful as logic,
But it is twice so important.
True Love tells only things
That are the most true.
It tells of joy and comfort,
But also of sacrifice and pain.
And in this age,
Though to be practical is everything,
Love is the most important of all.
This was inspired by Oscar Wilde's short story, The Rose and the Nightingale, and a couple lines were taken from the Ballad of Reading Gaol, among other works by Wilde. I didn't like how his story ended, so I changed it. It's a story of love and sacrifice now, instead of being a picture of the modern day. It's hope.
Heather Jan 2013
Sing me a song full of love
Sing me a song full of hope
Sing me a song filled with life,
not goodbyes like the song in your eyes

I have always been true
Even when I knew the same
was not returned from you
Optimism hurts when
reality's much worse
Naivete scars later on

But happiness comes
at the most unexpected times
Or maybe there's a reason for yours
One that I ignore
until my head becomes sore
Because all I want to hear is your voice

Sing me a song full of love
Sing me a song full of hope
Sing me a song filled with life,
not goodbyes like the song in your eyes

Sometimes I can feel your pain
But it's fleeting, leaving me wandering
Oh no, here we go again
Ups and downs, you spin me
around until I can't think straight

Disorientation can be a lovely medication
For the heart's tribulations
Until you realize
That's all you'll ever feel

Sing me a song full of love
Sing me a song full of hope
Sing me a song filled with life,
not goodbyes like the song in your eyes

One more week until I'm home
Will you be there? Or has someone
else stolen your life?
Mine will go on either way,
one choice just hurts more at the
end of the day

You parted from me
Stoic as can be
And I sit by myself to figure
What it was all about
I may never know, but one last time
would you please

Sing me a song full of love
Sing me a song full of hope
Sing me a song filled with life,
not goodbyes like the song in your eyes
Melaka Jude Jul 2016
A major, a minor
A flat and a sharp
The song of a nightingale
The notes of a harp

The jingle of church bells
The clang of a gong
All these help in
Creating a song

The song of a lifetime
The song of a brook
The song of the children
The song of a cook

The song that is sung
From morn to nigh
The song that gives every-
Body a high

A major, a minor
A flat and a sharp
The song of a nightingale
The notes of a harp

The whistle of the blowing wind
The chords of a guitar
All these create
A song from afar

The song of a lifetime
The song of a brook
The song of the children
The song of a cook

The song which is listened to
From morning to night
The song which whispers
To everybody *Goodnight
Cedric McClester Apr 2015
By: Cedric McClester

Twenty- seven years
In a prison cell
Like Dante’s Infernal
A version of hell
All he wanted was freedom
For his native land
Where because of apartheid
Things had gotten out of hand

This is a song for Nelson
Who changed everything
A song for Nelson
Is the song that I sing

There on Robben Island
Where he would be still
If not for his courage
And his indomitable will
He led a movement
That endured and prevailed
Even from a prison cell
Locked away in jail

This is a song for Nelson
Who changed everything
A song for Nelson
Is the song that I sing

To say he was transformative
Understates the case
A man for the ages would be better
In its place
He changed a people’s destiny
Saw apartheid get erased
As the father of his country
His name has been encased

This is a song for Nelson
Who changed everything
A song for Nelson
Is the song that I sing

In 1964 an indictment was lodged
Against Nelson Mandela
Accused of sabotage
Which he never denied
Or tried to camouflage
The truth of the matter is
He was guilty by and large
And locked away until he was discharged

This is a song for Nelson
Who changed everything
A song for Nelson
Is the song that I sing

Twenty- seven years
In a prison cell
Like Dante’s Infernal
A version of hell
All he wanted was freedom
For his native land
Where because of apartheid
Things had gotten out of hand

This is a song for Nelson
Who changed everything
A song for Nelson
Is the song that I sing










(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester,  All rights reserved.
This Ain't a ******* Country Song

You know I love my Rock and Roll

I wouldn't write a Country Song

'Cause that's not how I roll

This song it ain't bout country things

Like pickup trucks and cars

You'll never find me writing

About getting drunk in bars

There's no mention here of Taylor Swift

or The Charlie Daniels Band

I wouldn't write of how the banks

are taking our farmland

This Ain't a ******* Country Song

You know I love my Rock and Roll

I wouldn't write a Country Song

'Cause that's not how I roll

I don't know **** 'bout Redneck stuff

like hunting dogs and guns

I wouldn't write of Daisy Dukes

showing off some hot babes buns

I won't write 'bout the Opry

I don't know all that stuff

Of Minnie Pearl and Grandpa Jones

And Mr. Roy Acuff

This Ain't a ******* Country Song

You know I love my Rock and Roll

I wouldn't write a Country Song

'Cause that's not how I roll

There's nothing here 'bout Bourbon

or of Racing through the fields

I don't know much about farming

or crop futures or of yields

I listen to The Rolling Stones

Trace Adkins I don't like

Lady A can go away

Kid Rock can ride his bike

You won't hear much about Zac Browns Band

or of food thats Chicken Fried

I might go to a hoedown

If I'd  just  up and died

My music, it fulfills me

It makes me who I am

But I'll stay away from country

songs, Cause I don't give a ****

No Oak Ridge Boys or Hee Haw Here

Hank Williams I won't buy

I'll never buy a Dixie Beer

It's a drink I'll never try

I won't sing about Kentucky

or of a Texas Yellow Rose

you know this aint no country song

Good god I hope it shows

There's no mohter, dogs or applie pie

no  fishin' in the dark

No Everything is Beautiful

No songs by Terry Clark

I'm really open minded

My friends they are the same

We won't buy country music

To us it's just so lame

This Ain't a ******* Country Song

You know I love my Rock and Roll

I wouldn't write a Country Song

'Cause that's not how I roll

I won't mention stuff you'll find

in songs by Nashville bands

There's nothing here about

watching football in the stands

I'll never write a country song

Cause country just ain't fun

Oh crap I just read this thing

And I think I just wrote one

This Ain't a ******* Country Song

You know I love my Rock and Roll

I wouldn't write a Country Song

'Cause that's not how I roll
Kuzhur Wilson Nov 2013
From Chundanthuruth to Madrid
I was driving
On an errand
That was not really urgent

In the car, a song
Not actually sweet
Not even beautiful
Was playing in a hum..

Whenever I got bored
Looked at the sky
The sky too looked back
Once I winked at it
Teasingly..
Since the sky could not wink
Closing one eye
It shot a frightening glance
At me; said
" get lost, mind your business! "

I kept driving..
Beyond Kalamasseri
At the container road signal
Stood a man
Signalled to stop

No sooner did I stop
Than he got inside
And sits authoritatively
On the seat to my left
Regarding my song
Neither too sweet
Nor that beautiful
With contempt..

(In looks, a gentle man, infact a rogue
I said in brackets )

Though Idid not like much
I asked him his name
' Life ' he said
Ah! 
Since it was my first
Encounter with "Life"
Asked his initials too

Without paying heed
Life played a song
I did not like
Life played another song
I did not like at all
Life played a different song
I did not, did not like
Life played different different songs
I did not like

Life played song
I did not like
Life played song
I did not like
Life played song 
I did not like
------------
Malaamparamp, moolampilly
High court junction
Marine drive
On the way to Madrid
Life kept on playing
Different different songs

My "I dont like, I dont like"
Continued 

Life again played a song
I did not like it
Again I did not like
Again and again 
I did not like

Life 
Then
Played a song
I liked it a bit
I liked it a bit more
Bit by bit
I liked that song
Liked the song
Liked the song very much
Liked only that song

That song became mine
That song became me
What to say;
I even danced
To that song

Just then
Just then
Once again
I asked Life
His initials
Laughingly it said
" Life.PK"

(Translated by Vijayalakshmi Murthy)
Translated by Vijayalakshmi Murthy
David Ehrgott Sep 2015
Here's that song I wrote about you
Instead of lying around, whimpering
I put my pen to the paper again
And I don't even have to pretend
Yes, here's that song I wrote about you
I hope you like how it ends
Because every time I think of you
I write a song again

Like a manic Myspace ******
Reading everything I write
Deleting words you thought were yours
And changing some to fight
It's not your mother dear nic-o-lee
So stop choosing her to blame
You will be cornered by the feds
Someday when they put you both away

I never knew love in this kind of way
Fly to get there.  Then, have to explain
What possessed me to see you in person
can never be explained
I'd like to talk about two girls
And they're both from Michigan
You Georgia peaches got nothing on them
And the way they love to sin
  
And many come to see me in person
At the typewriter where I sit
And sometimes they can make me feel easy
And at times they make me sh*t [panic]
When they say
"Why'd you write that song about me"
And I say
"Listen, it was only words"
Do you want to fight with me?
And then they lay on their back again
  
I told you every word is about you
But the names, look, they changed again
All that hurt, and you still sleep around
Can't you trust?  Then please tell me why you can't
I'd like to write a song about FEB
And how beautiful a ten
or how those ****** in Hollywood
Stole my song last year, again
But, thanks to my friend Walleye I knew they
wouldn't get away with it
Now there I go again
Got off the track in Hackensack
Oh well, here we go again

So, here's that song I wrote about you
To my wife/*****/lost girlfriend
I put my pen to the paper again
And I don't even have to pretend
Somebody write this date down
Sunday, One Ten Twenty-Ten
What once was so very far away
Has already been spent

Hear a song I wrote for you
If the big men go and steal it
I'll have to write another one
I just hope that you can feel it
Here's that song I wrote about you
Can you have that on your conscience?
Here's a song I wrote about you
Life is short!  There!
This song has balance

So, here's that song I wrote about you
Instead of lying around, whimpering
I put my pen to the paper again
And I don't even have to pretend
Yes, here's that song I wrote about you
And I hope you like its ending
Because, every time I think of you
I write a song again
Elicia Mannay Jan 2016
I would of written you a love song.
I want you to know that if I could of strung together L-O-V-E into a comprehensible phrase then I would of written you a love song.
I never could of opened my mouth to sing it for I have no flow… But I would of written it anyway.
I would of written it for you.
I want you to know that if I could of strung together any sentence, any set of words that could explain the way I feel then I would of written you a love song.
Perhaps it would never have been angry or passionate or inspired you to feel anything.
There is a very high chance that it would of never made me feel the way that love songs are generally meant to.
But I would of written it anyway.
I want you to know that I hope that someday someone writes you a love song, and it is not about awkward first kisses on braces or teenage boys with no sense.
I hope that someone writes you a love song and that someone is the someone that I could never be.
The someone you would of never been for me.
Because you can love your best friend in a million ways and one.
But you cannot write a love song for somewhere your love does not belong.
But I want you to know, I would of written you a love song if I knew how, if I could of felt that way then I would of chosen you.
I would of written you a love song.
I would of written it about long brown hair that never changes and blue eyes that stand out like the sea,
I wish I could of written you a love song but you don’t belong to me.
If I could of rearranged the world and chosen each tiny magnificent part then there is not a fragment of you that I would change,
If I could of written you a love song then I would of told you that there’s not a part of you that I would rearrange.
And if I could of…
If I would of…
Written you a love song then it would of been beautiful.
It would of been beautifully strange.
It would of been a hundred things that I’ll never truly know.
Because I would of written you a love song, but I don’t know how.
I hope someone writes you words that bring tears to your eyes.
I hope someone writes you a song and they open their mouth to sing and that melody is sweet.
I think that to anyone else this would all seem quite strange but you will understand these words for everything they mean.
I would of written you a love song.
Instead I wrote you this, because there are a thousand lifetimes and in none of them do we ever make it to a third kiss.
DH Matthews Sep 2013
Why?
It's a painful memory that appears to be settling in for life rather than preparing to leave,
It's been heard by countless millions, and none of them can understand how it sounds to me,
I haven’t been as happy since hearing it as I was when I heard it,
It's symbolic of the most significant turning point in my life to date,
The lyrics are so perfectly foreshadowing of a problem that I couldn't fathom that I’d have,
It has a stronger connection to memory than any other song,
It represents the perpetual unhappiness that I refuse to believe controls me.
I'm unhappy.

Where?
A car that I haven’t seen in years,
On a street I barely saw enough of,
In a town I wish I could visit again.
A happier place that I can see but can never return to,
Personified by a face that's disappeared from here.
Somewhere I miss, yet somewhere I hate;
Somewhere that needed the version of me that died in that very place;
A cemetery.

When?
Happier times;
A collection of moments which are infinite from within,
Yet minute from without.
A time when I could define myself,
Through the vice of another person;
Albeit vicariously, it was the last time
I was able to define myself.
I was everything; I was the world.
And then the world ended.
Happier times that I can't and won't return to.

What?
A song;
A memory;
A beautiful beat,
In a story that nobody's telling.
A soundtrack to a movie nobody wants to see,
A composition that will fall on deaf ears;
Yet still be heard by the world at large, call it irony.
Something nobody can take away from me;
Despite how tenaciously I've tried to get rid of it.
A succession of noises that would be meaningless to me,
Were it not for the memory.
The memory.

Who?
She, I, and the drivers of some road in Georgia;
Drivers that didn't notice then and don't notice now.
She, driving, demonstrating, performing;
Has driven on, failing to notice.
Me, her, and the songwriter, I suppose;
Me, a person I don't know,
Replaced by a person I can't.
The songwriter, collecting her checks and trophies,
Probably not a **** to give about the troubles
Of some ******* who heard her song.
Us, a concept foreign to me;
Unbeknownst then, well studied now;
Still as foreign as that state,
That city,
That road,
That car,
That place that I can revisit,
But never go back;
Her.

The Song?
Because I'm unhappy;
In a cemetery,
During happier times that I can't and won't return to;
A memory
With her.
I need more words.

Words
Nevermind, I'll find someone like you.
I wish nothing but the best for you.
Don't forget me, I beg.
I remember you said:
Sometimes it lasts in love,
But sometimes it hurts instead.

But that's not right.
I won't find someone like you;
There was no you.
I wish anything but the best for you;
You selfish child.
Please forget me;
I'm nothing worth remembering.
I've forgotten everything you said.
It rarely, if ever, lasts in love.
It always hurts.
Laughable,
The things I tell myself to bandage
A wound that doesn't appear.
The clichés I give meaning to are

******* pitiful.
Just about two years and counting.
Two psychiatrists,
Two half-assed ******* suicide attempts,
Dozens of classes,
Legions of friends,
A handful of people so much like you that they'd failed to notice there is no you,
And you're still talking about this
Pile of ****.
Who's talking about it?
Me? You?
Nobody.
It's white noise;
Habituation at play.
A memory not worth remembering.
Three years of piano lessons,
The lines of my scripts,
The best films throughout history,
Even the Eagles game from last week is

Worth remembering
This,
This moment in time occupied by just another pop song,
Time spent with a person no longer there,
Family member after family member, anecdote after anecdote,
Things not to say or do in front of her hulking ******* of a brother,
Approval of people I wound up discarding.
What now?

I need more words.

Where were we?
Fresh year, fresh start, and the Eagles were still a winning team○;
A dorm, a drunken haze, a bed, a city unparalleled;
Untested grounds for a young idiot
Like me. She certainly did
And wasn't afraid to show it.
Independence, experience, maturity,
And a stunning mutual lack thereof.
Problems, buried like the worst ******* time capsule ever.
Happiness (unsustainable)
Love (attachment)
Future ()
A candle burning down to its last wax can’t relight,
And a pile of wax won't help me see in the dark.

But who needs candles anyway?
I'm better off without candles,
Playing with fire can get me burnt.
And besides, lightbulbs are brighter and more efficient.
I’ll install lightbulbs all over the apartment,
Once I can figure out how to turn the power back on.
Oh, there aren't power lines running to this apartment.
(sure wish I had a candle right about now)
Maybe the light from this cigarette will help.
And I could sure use a cigarette right now
Because they’re playing that song again.
Surely I can find some better music than this.
This station seems nice, let's see what she can offer.
They're playing that song again.
Over and over again.
Is it just me, or are they always playing that song?
It's always that song, no matter what.
It's all I ever hear.
Pop radio sure is terrible these days, right?
Sure is.
Can't walk down the street to class without hearing

That ******* ******* song.*

(
Nobody else is hearing it.
I'm the one singing it.
My life's a ******* joke, isn't it?
)

○The Philadelphia Eagles were 10-6 in 2010, 8-8 in 2011, and 4-12 last year. And during the ‘still friends’ period, we watched the division rival Giants win the Super Bowl together. I ******* hated it.
English class final project; a lyric essay about a song that reminds me of a specific time, approximately a thousand words in at least five different sections, and something cited from the outside world from said time. The feedback from my professor and classmates was overwhelmingly positive, so I figured I'd share.

also, the "more words" bits were tongue in cheek references to the 1000 word minimum for the assigment
David Ehrgott Aug 2016
Here's that song I wrote about you
Instead of lying around, whimpering
I put my pen to the paper again
And I don't even have to pretend
Yes, here's that song I wrote about you
I hope you like how it ends
Because every-time I think of you
I write a song again

Like a manic my-space ******
Reading everything I write
Deleting words you thought were yours
And changing some to fight
It's not your mother dear nic-o-lee
So stop choosing her to blame
You will be cornered by the feds
Someday when they put you both away

I never knew love in this kind of way
Fly to get there.  Then, have to explain
What possessed me to see you in person
can never be explained
I'd like to talk about two girls
And they're both from Michigan
You Georgia peaches got nothing on them
And the way they love to sin
  
And many come to see me in person
At the typewriter where I sit
And sometimes they can make me feel easy
And at times they make me **** [panic]
When they say
"Why'd you write that song about me"
And I say
"Listen, it was only words"
Do you want to fight with me?
And then they lay on their back again
  
I told you every-word is about you
But the names, look, they changed again
All that hurt, and you still sleep around
Can't you trust?  Then please tell me why you can't
I'd like to write a song about FEB
And how beautiful a ten
or how those ****** in Hollywood
Stole my song last year, again
But, thanks to my friend Walleye I knew they
wouldn't get away with it
Now there I go again
Got off the track in Hackensack
Oh well, here we go again

So, here's that song I wrote about you
To my wife/*****/lost girlfriend
I put my pen to the paper again
And I don't even have to pretend
Somebody write this date down
Sunday, One Ten Twenty-Ten
What once was so very far away
Has already been spent

Hear a song I wrote for you
If the big men go and steal it
I'll have to write another one
I just hope that you can feel it
Here's that song I wrote about you
Can you have that on your conscience?
Here's a song I wrote about you
Life is short!  There!
This song has balance

So, here's that song I wrote about you
Instead of lying around, whimpering
I put my pen to the paper again
And I don't even have to pretend
Yes, here's that song I wrote about you
And I hope you like it's ending
Because, every-time I think of you
I write a song again
Ingrid Murphy Jul 2019
If you were a song
I would sing you

If you were a song you would be a lament
a hymn with a jaunty refrain
a ballad, an ode
a collection of sounds
truculent, tentative
terse
verse

If you were a song
you would follow the valleys
the lakes and the wooded glades
If you were a song
you would bounce off the clouds
and be whisked away
by a passing stray

If you were a song
you wouldn't need to make sense
you'd have pockets as deep as enough
and always have change to help with a fall
you'd always have pockets  
for chocolate

If you were a song you would smell like the earth
like the rain, like the whistling wind
If you were a song
you would howl like the moon
and run with the wolves
If you were a song
we'd be down by the lake
and you would be still
If you were a song I could hear you.

If you were a song
you'd be the crackle of flames
the sound of the crowd
the rustle of silk
If you were a song you'd be the echo of souls
If you were a song
they'd have cut out your tongue
and I'd have to sing for you
If you were a song
I would never stop singing

Now we have started there's no way back
no absence of sound
no way to refrain
The song and the singer must reach for the earth

If you were a song
I would sing you
bcg poetry Nov 2014
laying on the floor i searched for a song
one to match the pain the sorrow the fear i was facing
a song to understand the desperation
a song to understand the hurt
a song to to understand that sometimes it won't get better

walking through the streets i searched for a song
one to match the pain the sorrow the fear i was facing
a song to understand the mask
a song to understand the covering up
a song to understand that sometimes faking it won't get rid of the hurt

standing in the middle of the floor i searched for a song
one to match the pain the sorrow the fear i was facing
a song to understand the confusion
a song to understand the guilt
a song to understand that sometimes I can't take another step

but there is no song
there are no lyrics
there is no instrument
it's silence without you
Song one
This is a song about tarzanic love
That subsisted some years ago,
As a love duel between an English girl and an African ogre,
There was an English girl hailing along the banks of river Thames
She had stubbornly refused all offers for marriage,
From all the local English boys, both rich and poor
tall and short, weak or strong, ugly and comely in the eye,
the girl had refused and sternly refused the treats for love,
She was disciplined to her callous pursuit of her dream
to marry a mysterious,fantastic,lively,original and extra-ordinary man,
That no other woman in history of human marriage ever married,
She came from London, near the banks of river Thames,
Her name was Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill, daughter of a peasant,
She came from a humble English family, which hustled often
For food, clothing, and other calls that make one an ordinary British,
She grew up without a local boy friend, anywhere in the English world,
She is the first English girl to knock the age of forty five while a ******,
She never got deflowered in her teens as other English girls usually do
She preserved her purse with maximal carefulness in her wait for a black man,
Her father, of course a peasant, his trade was human barber and horse shearer,
Often asked her what she wants in life before her marriage, which man she really wanted,
Her specification was an open eyesore to her father; no blinkers could stave the father’s pale
For she wanted a black tall man, strong and ruggedly dark in the skin, must own a kingdom,
Fables taken to her from Africa were that such an African man was only one but none else,
His glorious name was Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
When the English girl heard the chimerical name of her potential husband,
She felt a super bliss in her spine; she yearned for the day of her rendezvous,
She crashed into desperate burning for true English love
With a man with a wonderful name like Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya.


Song two

Rumours of this English despair and dilemma for love reached Africa, in the wrong ears,
Not the human ears, but unfortunately the ears of the ogres, seasoned in the evil art,
It was received and treated as classified information among the African ogress,
They prevented this news to leak to African humans at all at all
Lest humans enjoy their human status and enjoy most
The love in the offing from the English girl,
They thus swiftly plotted and ployed
To lure and win the ******
From royal land;
England.




Song three

Firstly, the African ogres recruited one of their own
The most handsome middle aged male ogre, more handsome than all in humanity,
And of course African ogres are beautiful and handsome than African humans, no match,
The ogres are more gifted in stature, physique, eugenics and general overtures
They always outplay African humans on matters of intelligence, they are shrewder,
Ogres are aggressive and swashbuckling in manners; fear is none of their domain
Craft and slyness is their breakfast, super is the result; success, whether pyrrhic or Byronic,
Is their sweetest dish, they then schemed to get the English girl at whatever cost,
They made a move to name one of their fellow ogres the name of dream man;
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
Which an English girl wanted,
By viciously naming one of their handsome middle-aged man this name.

Song four

Then they set off 0n foot, from Congo moving to the north towards Europe abode England,
Where the beautiful girl of the times, Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill hail,
They were three of them, walking funnily in cyclopic steps of African ogres,
Keeping themselves humorously high by feigning how they will dupe the girl,
How they will slyly decoy the English village pumpkin of the girl in to their trap,
And effortlessly make her walk on foot from England to Africa, in pursuit of love
On this muse and sweet wistfulness they broke out into loud gewgaws of laughter,
In such emotional bliss they now jump up wildly forgetting about their tails
Which they initially stuffed inside white long trousers, tails now wag and flag crazily,
Feats of such wild emotions gave the ogres superhuman synergy to walk cyclopically,
A couple of their strides made them to cross Uganda, Kenya, Somali, Ethiopia and Egypt
Just but in few days, as sometimes they ran in violent stampedes
Singing in a cryptic language the funny ogres songs;

Dada wu ndolelee!
Dada wu ndolelee!
Kuyuni kwa mnja
Sa kwingile khundilila !

Ehe kuyuni Mulie!
Ehe kuyuni mulie!
Omukhana oyo
Kaloba khuja lilia !
They then laughed loudly, farted cacophonously and jumped wildly, as if possessed,
They used happiness and raucous joy as a strategy to walk miles and miles
Which you cover when moving on foot from Congo to England,
They finally crossed Morocco and walked into Europe,
They by-passed Italy and Spain walking piecemeal
into England, native land of the beautiful girl.

Song  five

When the three ogres reached England, they were all surprised
Every woman and man was white; people of England walked slowly and gently
They made minimum noise, no shouting publicly on the street,
a stark contrast to human behaviour and ogre culture in Africa, very rambunctious,
Before they acclimatized to disorderly life in England, an over-sighted upset befell them
Piling and piling menace of pressure to ****,
Gripped all the three ogre brothers the same time,
None of them had knowledge of municipal utilities,
They all wanted to micturated openly
Had it not been beautiful English girls
Ceaselessly thronging the streets.



Song six

They persevered and moved on in expectation of coming to the end,
Out-skirt of the strange English town so that they can get a woodlot,
From where they could hide behind to do open defecation
All was in vain; they never came to any end of the English town,
Neither did they come by a tumbled-down house
No cul de sac was in sight, only endless highway,
Sandwiched between tall skyscraping buildings,
One of the ogres came up with an idea, to drip the ****
Drop by drop in their *******, as they walk to their destiny,
They all laughed but not loudly, in controlled giggles
And executed the idea minus haste.

Song seven

They finally came down to the banks of river Thames,
Identified the home of Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill
The home had neither main gate nor metallic doors,
They entered the home walking in humble majesty,
Typical of racketeering ogre, in a swindling act,
The home was silent, no one in sight to talk to
The ogres nudged one another, repressing the mirth,
Hunchbacked English lass surfaced, suddenly materialized
Looking with a sparkle in the eye, talking pristine English,
Like that one written by Geoffrey Chaucer, her words were as piffling
As speech of a mad woman at the fish market, ogres looked at her in askance.

Song eight

An ogre with name Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya opened to talk,
Asked the girl where could be the latrine pits, for micturation only,
The hunchbacked lass gave them a direction to the toilets inside the house,
She did it in a full dint of English elegance and gentility,
But all the ogres were discombobulated to their peak
about the English latrine pit inside the house,
they all went into the toilet at the same time,
to the chagrin of the hunchbacked lass
she had never seen such in England
she struggled a lot
to repress her mirth
as the English
never get amused
at folly.




Song nine

It is a tradition among the ogres to ****,
Whenever they are ******* in the African bush,
But now the ogres are in a fix, a beautiful fix of their life
If at all they ****, the flatulent cacophony will be heard outside
By the curious eavesdroppers under the eaves of the house,
They murmured among themselves to tighten their **** muscles
So that they can micturated without usual African accomplice; the tweeee!
All succeeded to manage , other than Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Who urinated but with a low tziiiiiiii sound from his ***, they didn’t laugh
Ogres walked out of privities relaxed like a catholic faithful swallowing a sacrament,
The hunchback girl ushered them to where they were to sit, in the common room
They all sat with air of calm on their face, Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
led the conversation, by announcing to the girl that he is Victoria’s visitor from Africa,
To which the girl responded with caution that Victoria is at the barbershop,
Giving hand to her father in shearing the horses, and thus she is busy,
No one is allowed to meet her, at that particular hour of the day
But he pleaded to the hunchback girl only to pass tidings to Victoria,
That Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya from Africa
Has arrived and he is yearning to meet her today and now,
The girl went bananas on hearing the name
The hunch on her back visibly shook,
Is like she had heard the name often,
She then became prudent in her senses,
And asked the visitor not to make anything—
Near a cat’s paw out of her person,
She implored the visitor to confirm
if at all he was what he was saying
to which he confirmed in affirmation,
then she went out swiftly
like a tail of the snake,
to pass tidings
to her sister
Victoria.


Song ten
She went out shouting her sister’s name,
A rare case to happen in England,
One to make noise in the broad day light,
With no permission from the local leadership,
She called and ululated Victoria’ name for Victoria to hear
From wherever she was, of which she heard and responded;
What is the matter my dear little sister? What ails you?
Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya is around!
She responded back in voice disturbed by emotional uproar,
What! My sister why do you cheat me in such a day time?
Am not cheating you my sister, he is around sited in our father’s house,
Is he? Have you given him a drink, a sweet European brandy?
My sister I have not, I feared that I may mess up your visitors
With my hunched shoulders, I feared sister forbid,
Ok, I am coming, running there, tell him to be patient,
Let me tell him sister just right now,
And make sure you come before his patience is stretched.





Song eleven

Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill almost went berserk
On getting this good tidings about the watershed presence,
Of the long awaited suitor, her face exploded into vivacity,
Her heart palpitating on imagination of finally getting the husband,
She went out of the barber shop running and ululating,
Leaving her father behind, confounded and agape,
She came running towards her father’s main house
Where the suitor is sited, with the chaperons,
She came kicking her father’s animals to death,
Harvesting each and every fruit, for the suitor,
She did marvel before she reached where the suitor was;
Harvested ten bananas, mangoes and avocadoes,
Plums, pepper, watermelons, lemons and oranges,
She kicked dead five chicken, five goats, rams,
Swine, rabbits, rats, pigeons and hornbills,
When she reached the house, she inquired to know,
Who among them could be the one; Akhatembete Khobwibo
Khakhalikha no bwoya, But her English vocals were not guttural enough,
She instead asked, who among you is a key tempter go weevil car no lawyer?
The decoy ogre promptly responded; here I am the queen of my heart. He stood up,
Victoria took the ogre into her arms, whining; babie! Babie, babie, come!
Victoria carried the ogre swiftly in her arms, to her tidy bed room,
She placed the ogre on her bed, kissed one another at a rate of hundred,
Or more kisses per a minute, the kissing sent both of them crazy, but spiritual craft,
That gave the ogre a boon to maintain some sobriety, but libido of virginity held Victoria
In boonless state of ****** feat, defenseless and impaired in judgment
It extremely beclouded her judgment; she removed and pulled of their clothes,
Libidinous feat blurring her sight from seeing the scarlet tail projecting
From between the buttocks of the ogre, vestige of *******,
She forcefully took the ogre into her arms, putting the ogre between her legs,
The ogre’s uncircumcised ***** effectively penetrated Victoria’s ****** purse,
The ogre broke virginity of Victoria, making her to feel maximum warmth of pleasure
As it released its germinal seed into her body, ecstasy gripped her until she fainted,
The ogre erected more on its first *******; its ***** became more stiff and sharp,
It never pulled out its ***** from the purse of Victoria, instead it introduced further
Deeper and deeper into Victoria’s ******, reaching the ****** depth inside her with gusto,
Victoria screamed, wailed, farted, scratched, threw her neck, kissed crazily and ******,
On the rhythms of the ogre’s waist gyrations, it was maximum pleasure to Victoria,
She reached her second ****** before the ogre; it took further one hour before releasing,
Victoria was beaten; she thought she was not in England in her father’s house
She thought she was in Timbuktu riding on a mosquito to Eldorado,
Where she could not be found by her father whatsoever,
The ogre pulled Victoria up, helped her to dress up,
She begged that they go back to the common room,
Lest her father finds them here, he would quarrel,
They went back to the common room,
Found her father talking to other two ogres,
She shouted to her father before anyone else,
That ‘father I have been showing him around our house,’
‘He has fallen in love with our house; he is passionate about it,’
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya was shy,
He greeted the father and resumed his chair, with wryly dignity.


Song twelve
An impromptu festival took place,
Fully funded by the father of Victoria,
There was meat of all type from pork to chicken,
Greens were also there in plenty, pepper and watermelons,
Victoria’s mother remembered to prepare tripe of a goat
For the key visitant who was the suitor; Akhatembete,
Food was laid before the ogres to enjoy themselves,
As all others went to the other house for a brainstorming session,
But the hunched backed girl hid herself behind the door,
To admire the food which visitors were devouring,
As she also spied on the table manners of the visitors, for stories to be shared,
Perhaps between herself and her mother, when visitors are gone,
Some sub-human manners unfolded to her as she spied,
One of the ogres swallowed a spoon and a table fork,
And Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Uncontrollably unstuffed his scarlet tail from the trouser,
The chill crawled up the spine of hunchbacked girl,
She almost shouted from her hideout, but she restrained herself,
She swore to herself to tell her father that the visitors are not humans
They are superhuman, Tarzans or mermaids or the werewolves,
The ogre who swallowed the spoon remorsefully tried to puke it back,
Lest the hosts discover the missing spoon and cause brouhaha,
It was difficult to puke out the spoon; it had already flowed into the stomach,
Victoria, her father, her mother and her friend Anastasia,
Anastasia; another English girl from the neighborhood,
Whom Victoria had fished, to work for her as a best maid, as a chaperon,
Went back to the house where the ogres had already finished eating,
They found ogres sitting idle squirming and flitting in their chairs
As if no food had ever been presented to them in a short while ago,
One ogre even shamelessly yawned, blinking his eyes like a snake,
They all forgot to say thanks for the food, no thanks for lunch,
But instead Akhatembete announced on behalf of other ogres,
That they should be allowed to go as they are late for something,
A behaviour so sub-human, given they were suitors to an English family,
Victoria’s father was uneasy, was irritated but he had no otherwise,
For he was desperate to have her daughter Victoria get married,
He had nothing to say but only to ask his daughter, Victoria,
If she was going right-away with her suitor or not,
To which she violently answered yes I am going with him,
Victoria’s mother kept mum, she only shot miserable glances
From one corner of the house to another, to the ogres also,
She totally said nothing, as Victoria was predictably violent
To any gainsayer in relation to her occasion of the moment,
Victoria’s father wished them all well in their life,
And permitted Victoria to go and have good life,
With Akhatembete, her suitor she had yearned for with equanimity,
Victoria was so confused with joy; her day of marriage is beholden,
She hurriedly packed up as if being chased by a monster,
Talula Oct 2014
Let me lean against your chest
and listen to your heart
let me cry out all my feelings
and take away the hurt
as I slowly go crazy
come closer to me
and sing something I need to hear....

I want you to sing to me
and say
im your one
and
only
that you'll never let me go
and ask
"How many times can I say I love you?"

Sing me a song
That'll put me to sleep at night
That'll be my comfort
When your not holding me tight
Please,baby, please
Just for tonight
Sing me a song
Sing....me....a song

Let the lyrics
Flow over me
my blanket
When I'm
Shivering
I want your voice to ring in my head
Reminding me you love me
Over and over again

I want you to sing to me
and say
im your one
and
only
that you'll never let me go
and ask
"How many times can I say I love you?"

Sing me a song
That'll be my lullaby
My comfort when you can't hold me tight
Baby, please
Just for tonight
Sing me a song
Sing me a song
Sing....me....a song

Let me lean in your chest
And Listen to your heart
Let me cry on your shoulder
As I fall apart
Sing quietly in my ear
Here's what you'll say
"Baby, I love you forever and always"

Oh,oh,oh

I want you to sing to me
Baby your all I need
You give me strength
You catch me when I fall
Baby sing me a song
That will last for,ev,er
Never forgotten
In my mind
Till the day I die

Sing
Me
A song
Please sing me a song
Just sing me a song
Baby, sing us a song
Was longer, then my internet crashed. I forgot half the lyrics....btw this is a song.More lyrics will be added later.
Victoria Newman Oct 2010
It seems that only in sadness
Can I truly confess
All my feelings of love, hate and fear
Because all I want is someone to hear
What I think, what I know
And all I want is a place to go
A peaceful sanctuary inside my head
Of words that aren’t always easily said.

A good song should be a diary in rhyme
For when you’ve so much emotion
You have to spill it onto lines
A good song should be told right from the heart
No more, no less
A good song should be written for passion
And not to impress
A good song should be the truth and nothing but…
A good song should be the words and feelings
You get in your gut.

I know when I need to talk in confidence
My pen and paper break my silence
I could write for hours, hours on end
I don’t need hugs or candy to mend
My broken heart, instead I always know
My pen and paper love me so
Then perhaps, maybe one day
Someone will love my songs, or so they say.

A good song should be a diary in rhyme
For when you’ve so much emotion
You have to spill it onto lines
A good song should be told right from the heart
No more, no less
A good song should be written for passion
And not to impress
A good song should be the truth and nothing but…
A good song should be the words and feelings
You get in your gut.

A song is a way to say
The words in my head in a different way
A song is my inside mind
Filled out across every line
I appreciate that they will never leave me
And I hope they will never let me be
Alone when I need a friend
Or a good song that can easily mend.
Julie Schnell Nov 2016
Our love is as strong as a lion
Soft as the cuts on you lying
Times we got hot like an iron
You and I

Our hearts have never been broken
We were so innocent darling
Used to talk till the morning
You and I

We had that mixtape on every weekend
Had it repeating
Had it repeating

You were my September song
Summer lasted too long
Time moves so slowly
When you're only fifteen
You were my September song
Tell me where have you gone?
Do you remember me?
We were only fifteen
And I, I remember the chorus
They were singing it for us
You were my September song
Tell me where have you gone?
Do you remember me?
We were only fifteen

Sometimes I think that I see your
Face in the strangest of places
Down on the underground station passing by

I get a mad sense of danger
Feel like my heart couldn't take it
Cause if we met we'd be strangers
You and I

Still I play that mixtape every weekend
Got it repeating
Got it repeating

You were my September song
Summer lasted too long
Time moves so slowly
When you're only fifteen
You were my September song
Tell me where have you gone?
Do you remember me?
We were only fifteen
And I, I remember the chorus
They were singing it for us
I hear that September song
That I'm singing along
Thinking about you and me
Oh what a melody

And as the years go by
You will still be my, be my
(September song)
You are my
(September song)

You were my September song
Summer lasted too long
Time moves so slowly
When you're only fifteen
You were my September song
Tell me where have you gone?
Do you remember me?
We were only fifteen
And I, I remember the chorus
They were singing it for us
You were my September song
I remember the chorus
They were singing it for us
Heard this song on the way home tonight and wanted to share the lyrics.

— The End —