Happy Birthday Pluto! : Song Pluto’s always a planet to me

So, it’s the 90th anniversary of the discovery of our 9th planet, Pluto.
Yes. It’s a planet. There are a LOT of reasons why the IAU decision is a steaming pile of manure. I put a couple of them into song! (To the tune of Billy Joel’s ‘She’s always a woman to me’.)

It can push and can pull, where another planet lies
Good Lowell had faith we would see it with eyes
In his tower in Flagstaff Clyde finally did see
They call it a dwarf now but Pluto’s always a planet to me.

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Poetry – Song: Phantom Limbs . A tribute to Neil Peart and Rush, and to lost friends.

I’ve been thinking about death and loss lately. Specifically, I was thinking about Neil Peart. And how his friends and bandmates must feel. Especially Geddy. His voice has sung, for decades, words put there by Neil. How must that feel? To have a portion of your voice… gone?

And I can kind of understand. I’m missing a piece of my own voice these days, a dry sarcasm that would point out my stupidity, and sometimes add its own dumb ideas. Over a year now. I miss you Twitch. You were part of me, and I still feel you there.

And it made me think of phantom limbs, that feeling of something gone, but still there. People, friends, family, as a part of ourselves. So… I wrote a song

The man who lost his hand to the cannery blade,
Still can feel the tickle of his five fingered shade,
A bomb blast leaves the soldier sitting in a chair,
Late at night she could swear that her legs are still there.

Phantom Pains from what we’ve left behind,
Phantom Fears they’re only in our mind,
Phantom Pieces that we never find,
When they’re gone.

A clot bursts, tissue thirsts, deep within a friend’s brain,
No more hugs, pull the plugs, release him from your pain,
Sometimes you hear his voice, greeting you by name,
A vital piece of you will never feel the same.

You feel him at your side,
hear his words wry and snide,
You turn to him in pride,
Empty chair where he sat,
Makes you lose your stride.

Phantom Pains from who we’ve left behind,
Phantom Fears live only in our mind,
Phantom Pieces that we never find,
When they’re gone.

More than a hand or leg, my friends are a part of me,
No matter how I beg, Time will not let them be,
My words feel hollow now, without your counterpoint,
My soul is borrowed now, no more beats to anoint

You wrote the song I sang,
With my strings, bells you rang,
Backing me up from behind,
I fear to turn and find…
The empty swivel chair,
Still I feel you there.

Phantom Pains from who we’ve left behind,
Phantom Tears they live in our mind,
Phantom People that we’ll never find,
When they’re gone.
When they’re gone.

Gonna be a bad shift, My handle time is gonna fall, :Song parody

Wrote a quick song parody of William Bell’s immortal Born Under a Bad Sign. For all the call center folk!

Its gonna be a bad shift
My handle time is gonna fall
If it wasn’t for dumb people, you know I wouldn’t get a single call.
Hard boots and troubleshooting to the end
Gotta be polite hope they rate me ten
Its gonna be a bad shift
My handle time is gonna fall
If it wasn’t for dumb people, you know I wouldn’t get a single call.
My callers can’t read, but they know they’re right
My whole day is just one big fight
Its gonna be a bad shift
My handle time is gonna fall
If it wasn’t for dumb people, you know I wouldn’t get a single call.
That queue’s so high
You know if it wasn’t for dumb people, I wouldn’t have no calls,
If it wasn’t for real dumb people, I wouldn’t get a single call.
They whine and beg me, their tech to save
A big mouthed caller is gonna report me to my grave
Its gonna be a bad shift
My handle time is gonna fall
If it wasn’t for dumb people, you know I wouldn’t get a single call.
Yeah, my bad call time
Been having bad times for days.

Wordy wordy words

So, i was introduced this morning to the song Diggy Diggy Hole, through this metal video

My mind of course goes straight to parody

Wordy Wordy Words.

Siblings of the book rejoice
Scribe, scribe, scribe with me
Raise your pen and choose your voice!
Write, write, write with me
Down and down into the page
Who knows what phrases we’ll bequeath
Plots and plans, twists and more
For Our readers we have much in store
Born leather bound, suckled from a teat of ink
Reading in the dark, till our eyes were strained and pink
Skin made of paper, pencils in our bones
To write and write makes us free
Come on siblings, write with me!
I am a writer, and I’m writing the words
Wordy wordy words, wordy wordy words
I am a writer, and I’m writing the words
Wordy wordy words, writing the words
The daylight will not stop my flow
Write, write on the page
My word count must always grow
Blank sheets make me rage
Fill a glass and down your drink
Wear your fingers to the brink
Bow your head and fall asleep
Drool from mouth to page will seep
Born leather bound, bookcases line my room
Our pages are a cradle, our plots shall outline your tomb
Interrupt our writing time, Porlock will meet your doom!
We do not fear what lies we speak
No symbolism is too deep
I am a writer, and I’m writing the words
Wordy wordy words, wordy wordy words
I am a writer, and I’m writing the words
Wordy wordy words, writing the words
I am a writer, and I’m writing the words
Wordy wordy words, wordy wordy words
I am a writer, and I’m writing the words
Wordy wordy words, writing the words
Born leather bound, suckled from a teat of ink
Reading in the dark, till our eyes were strained and pink
Skin made of paper, pencils in our bones
To write and write makes us free
Come on siblings, write with me!
I am a writer, and I’m writing the words
Wordy wordy words, wordy wordy words
I am a writer, and I’m writing the words
Wordy wordy words, writing the words

The Time Lord Warp

A little parody I wrote a bit ago.  Enjoy.  Or don’t.

 

Its astounding,

Time is fleeting,

Many bodies, one soul.

We’ve got Capaldi,

(Not for very much longer)

Then a new Doctor will keep control.

 

I remember, watching the time wars,

Thinking of the moments when,

Regeneration would happen,

 

And the fans are calling,

CAN THE DOCTOR BE A WOMAN!?

CAN THE DOCTOR BE A WOMAN!?

 

Is it a plot of the Left?

NO THE TIME IS RIIIIGHHT!

Put your hands on your hips.

ITS TOO LATE TO FIIIIGHT!

 

YES HER PELVIC FROOONT, DRIVES THE TROLLS INSAAAAA AAAA AANE!

YES THE DOCTOR IS A WOMAN!

YES THE DOCTOR IS A WOMAN!

 

Its so seamy, they say a woman cant be,

In charge of the T.A.R.D.I.S., no, not at all.

In every dimension,

With altruistic intention,

The Doctor, can be any or all,

 

Yet still the bros flip,

Like we cut off their dick tip,

And nothing can ever be the same.

They bitch over on Reditt,

Its too late WE’VE SAID IT!

 

THE DOCTOR IS A WOMAN!

THE DOCTOR IS A WOMAN!

The days when my skin won’t fit

Its one of those weird, floaty days,

When nothing feels right,

When my arms feel like a costume,

They hang loose, not tight,

When this body of meat i wear,

Drags heavy, not light,

And I’m looking out another’s eyes,

This isn’t my sight.

 

I hate feeling big, bull in shop,

my skull rattles round,

I wish the sloshing sound would stop,

Every doorway too small,

I turn and from the desk things drop,

My flesh a jacket,

Handed down, too large it still flops,

These days when my skin just wont fit.

 

Cicada’s Promise

Three nights ago, the wind blew with fervor,

And red brown dust darkened the air,

I watched close my porch, a keen observer,

By dawn, not a drop landed there.

 

Two nights ago, Zeus’s chariot rolled,

As flash after spark lit the night,

Thunder shook, it promised, it told,

Of rain still absent by first light.

 

Last night, I could feel it in chest and bones,

My nose filled with Nature’s rutting,

She teased, till I prayed to Maiden and Crone,

On blue skys the sun woke strutting.

 

Tonight my ears with an Oracle fill,

A sweet song to this desert rat,

The first cicada buzzes on my sill,

A concert of hundreds, heavy and fat.

 

A prophecy made by that droning sound,

Whispers in the dark a promise,

By the next day’s twilight, rain will be found,

Believe, and don’t be a Thomas.