Get over yourself

Get over yourself

You're not very bright

It's plain accidental

If ever you're right

Your slim grasp on logic

Gives philosophers fright

Get over yourself

You're not very bright

Get over yourself

You're not very smart

You think you're so precious

With your terrible art

But you're less a Picasso

And more of a tart

Get over yourself

You're not very smart

Get over yourself

You're simply absurd

And not just to me

From what I have heard

Your view of realty's

Constantly blurred

Get over yourself

You're simply absurd

Get over yourself

You're not very sweet

You're not in the kitchen

'Cause you can't stand the heat

As for duplicity

You can't be beat

Get over yourself

You're not very sweet

Get over yourself

You're not very wise

You say that you love me

But we all know that's lies

And when you get caught out

It's such a surprise

Get over yourself

You're not very wise

Get over yourself

You're not very dear

Your plain self absorption's

Abundantly clear

Whenever you're needed

You just disappear

Get over yourself

You're not very dear

Get over yourself

You're so self obsessed

You don't have a thought

That goes unexpressed

Perhaps a psychiatrist

Could say it best

Get over yourself

You're so self obsessed

Get over yourself

You don't run this town

You think you're so open

But your brain has shut down

I simply don't care

If you gossip or frown

Get over yourself

You don't run this town

Ukuleles

I, too, used to be a mocker. 'Ukuleles! Pfft!' I thought. 'A toy, only fit for children and blue rinse ladies.' But, dear readers, there is a phenomenon sweeping the globe. Suddenly, ukes are COOL! And I understand why.

Musicians are prone to taking themselves oh, so seriously. Young women play endless angsty songs in quavery little voices while young men parade their alienation and hurt (and implicit superiority) for the world. And woe unto you if you do not appreciate their art and their pain. 

Guess what? Nobody particularly cares about your interior landscape. Get over yourself.

Music is medicine, but it need not taste awful. Instead, wouldn't it be nice to live in a world where music and laughter went together, where the musician was closer to a clown than a dentist? That world is here, and your passport is a ukulele. You can play anything on a ukulele. You can be enthusiastic, but you will never be serious. 

Check out Jake. Then pick your jaw up off the floor and go buy yourself a uke.

Worry

Sometimes I lie in bed and worry
I think about the things I said that day
I think about regrets and unkept promise
I guess I am a knucklehead that way

Sometimes I lie in bed and worry
I feel concern for all the human race
I worry that if gravity should fail
We'd all go spinning off in outer space

Sometimes I lie in bed and worry
Wicked people really cause me fright
What if Hitler should rise up from his grave
And come to cause me problems in the night

Sometimes I lie in bed and worry
I'm concerned as all the galaxies inflate
That countless trillion years into the future
Heat death will become our common fate

Sometimes I lie in bed and worry
I think perhaps I am a worry wart
Which of course is just another reason
To worry I don't worry as I ought

Archie

Archie was an ugly man
Of quite unpleasant face
His nose looked rather ill at ease
And slightly out of place

In fact his nose was quite depressed
And feeling out of sorts
And though it never said too much
Had suicidal thoughts

Archie never had a clue
Of his nose's mental state
But sometimes wondered why it had
Become so quiet of late

It was late on Tuesday evening
When the fire was burning low
That Archie's nose decided
That it was time to go

So striking out upon its own
It started a new life
Finding happiness at last
With an earlobe for a wife

My Bed

My bed, it is a safe place
It's where I like to be
I'm pretty sure that nothing bad
Will happen there to me


To curl up with a good book
My wife beside me there
I can safely put away my fears
My worries and my care

And if it's gently raining
It's even better then
I find it difficult to think
Of getting out again

Sp given that I feel this way
I think it's safely said
There is no problem big enough
That can't be solved in bed

So let's all take the generals
And tuck them tightly in
Tiptoe out, turn off the light
And let the peace begin

Sing for yourself

I love music. Music has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. The greatest connection I had with my father was his nurturing of me as a singer and guitar player.

I remember as a young man I burned with musical ambition. I craved applause and the opportunity to perform. I was certain I wanted to be famous, to make music my life, to be ... a star! Of course that didn't happen. Just as well, really. I'm not cut out for public life, or travel, or criticism, or pressure, or dealing with shifty business types.

Nope, I've had a luxurious musical life, doing what I wanted. It's only recently I've realized it was luxurious. I've always in the back of mind thought of music as a 'means to end', to make money. Now while I've had a little success, in those terms my musical life could only be considered a failure. Too often I've thought of it this way. But that's wrong. 

I was standing paying a bill at a medical practitioner's desk humming to myself and she looked up and said 'Singing is good for the heart.' That thought struck me. She was right, in all kinds of ways. The best reason to sing is for yourself.

Singing is good for the heart.

Tree

Tree, originally uploaded by ordinary-art.