Where The Rubber Meets The Road

I’m still writing, of course. You’d think one kind would naturally dovetail into the other, and if you were me, you would be wrong. I present this as the sort of waste of time I engage in: a fake song (that will most likely never be put to music) about a fake couple (who will mostly likely implode) for a fake band (that isn’t as good as I want them to be) in a story (that has a .01% chance of ever being published). I think I write almost twice as much material about the story as I do in the story.

The War

She puffs out her lip like a hitchhiker’s bruise.
He catches the heart on his sleeve on her dress.
They slip off their shoes for their ruse of a cruise.
The roadside they litter with such bitterness.

The wrong turns they take and the stops that they make
In the lots where the ghosts of their best shots lay dead.
She puts on her blacks as they stay for the wake;
They sigh while his blues clash with lips ruby red.

And this is the war
If not the heart’s wish.
It’s love at the core
That hates in the flesh.

In decency lost and complacency found,
The particulars are in need of redress;
They pick at the bones as they drive the world ’round,
And make their love with razor sharp tenderness.

And this is the war
If not the heart’s wish.
It’s love at the core
That hates in the flesh.

In the dark that falls in the hours made small,
When push comes to pull and the knife to it’s rest,
They’re twining their grip as they cling to their fall,
And lay themselves down by the sweat of their breast.

And this is the war.
Their war.
This is the war.
Their war.

This is a short one, but it springs to mind whenever I am called to duty.

The itsy bitsy spider
Crawled up the water spout.
Down came the rain
And washed the spider out.
Out came the sun
And dried up all the rain,
And the itsy bitsy spider heard the horrible shriek of my wife as she ran away, and five minutes later, I killed it with a paper towel.

The End.

This song is incredibly annoying. Perhaps that explains the ending.

The wheels on the bus go round and round,
round and round,
round and round.
The wheels on the bus go round and round,
all through the town.

The wipers on the bus go, Swish, swish, swish;
Swish, swish, swish;
Swish, swish, swish.
The wipers on the bus go, Swish, swish, swish,
all through the town.

The horn on the bus goes, Beep, beep, beep;
Beep, beep, beep;
Beep, beep, beep.
The horn on the bus goes, Beep, beep, beep,
all through the town.

The money on the bus goes, Clink, clink, clink;
Clink, clink, clink;
Clink, clink, clink.
The money on the bus goes, Clink, clink, clink,
all through the town.

The Driver on the bus says, “Move on back,
I’m smoking crack,” he has a heart attack.
Now the bus is heading for a cliff,
AAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee……

The End.

Today, we examine “The Diarrhea Song.” I think you’ll find the ending more appropriately reflects the innumerable verses of this song…

When you’re sliding into first
And your pants begin to burst
Diarrhea, diarrhea

When you’re sliding into two
And your pants are filled with goo
Diarrhea, diarrhea

When you’re sliding into third
And you feel a greasy turd
Diarrhea, diarrhea

When you’re sliding into home
And the paramedics come
And you’re bursting capillaries
From your chronic dysentery
And they try defibrillation
But you’ve died of dehydration
Diarrhea, diarrhea

The End.

I’ve had a lot of schooling in children’s songs. As a child, I sang them, and as an adult, I still sing them. Only louder and more annoyingly. Also, Noelle’s little buds have sung a few of their own.
But being children’s songs, they do tend to get a little boring, so more often than any dignified adult should, I find myself thinking of alternative lyrics, most of which I eventually sing to Gabe, Samara, and Noelle. Take today’s song, for example. “Five Little Monkeys” has also been called “(Insert random number) Little Monkeys”, but I’ll stick to the original – except, of course for the ending. Enjoy.

Five little monkeys jumping on the bed.
One fell off and bumped his head.
Mama called the doctor and the doctor said,
“No more monkeys jumping on the bed!”

Four little monkeys jumping on the bed.
One fell off and bumped his head.
Mama called the doctor and the doctor said,
“No more monkeys jumping on the bed!”

Three little monkeys jumping on the bed.
One fell off and bumped his head.
Mama called the doctor and the doctor said,
“NO MORE MONKEYS JUMPING ON THE BED!!!!!”

Two little monkeys jumping on the bed.
One fell off and bumped his head.
Mama called the doctor and the doctor called Social Services, and now Mama has court-appointed counseling, and is allowed supervised visitation of the little monkeys in a foster home where they are given enough love and attention that they stay off the goddamn bed.

The End.