(Dedicated to the useless gentrificationers of genuine pain)
Nobody wants to admit it
But we are ashamed of our past
‘I did not grow up poor in deep shit
And my fun parents made me laugh’
My happy childhood is the death of me
How dare my parents mock my artistry
Goddam daddy who didn’t drink
And mom who didn’t fuck the town
What was I supposed to think
When they failed to let me down
My happy childhood is the death of me
How dare my parents mock my artistry
Gramps didn’t stick his hands down my pants
Ain’t no hood profit in picket fence life
Credible people don’t stand a chance
Only the damned know how to bleed right
My happy childhood is the death of me
How dare my parents mock my artistry
(Artifacts of a past well remembered–both establishments these came from have been replaced by parking garages. The fuckers.)
(This is a neighbor whom I call “Da Blues.” He is a gregarious Russian Blue, his owner is very nice–but, for the love of God–do not dress your pets!)
(Pieces of the Twin Towers at The Evergreen Park 9-11 Memorial, Bremerton, WA)
Saragun Springs 
A happy 100th Birthday to Mel Brooks!
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Yes, loving parents and kind sibs and gentle, happy upbringings are the bane of existence of the aspiring artist. Love the cat but yes, don’t dress your pets.
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Hi Bill
Yes, we want kids to grow up safe and with caring parents. Yet society–mainly rap and metal music societies tries to spit on that. I grew up a bit rough, but that does not mean that the good kids are not able to feel and help. Messed up, specious world view supported by social media and not a damn bit correct. I like nice people. (Oh, and I think Da Blue’s has his shirt on backwards.)
Thank you!
Leila
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Aaaah! I love a bouncy ballad. Wonderful 3rd verse – thanks, mick
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Hi Mick
Thank you! Actually most of what I might call poetry is actually little bits of songs that never took shape–never found a melody or didn’t’t expand (or got too big) lyrically. Now, this one still has a chance, so you never can say.
Thanks as always!
Leila
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