I woke to the sounds of little feet running. As the sun rose high in the
sky. Another day of getting fore filled in my lot, and still more bills
mounting. Last night what seems a world away? I was singing my heart out, to
the bleeding heart strings of my song. In the famous 36 track recording
studio, on my beloved famous French Hill of this my mind. The enlightenment
of reviewing again and again, what's being put down and trying to get it
right. Made this my heart, skip a beat. You call this a living? It's more
like an occupation, keeping in time to sounds of my fellow musicians.
Laughing, singing, and dancing in swing of it. I could have done better. I
could have been a truck driver on an endless highway. With a load of red
ripe tomato sandwiches, bound for a concert of Frank Zapper, in the month of
June, as a full moon approaches. Only crying out, does anyone have a
toaster? A toaster, anyone? I need a toaster. Second hand, or new, it does
matter. As a passing comment from the crowd, you mean a coaster, for your
drink. As the car goes over another pot hole, on this road of life. A few
sunrises, sunsets, for about three months, give or take a year. God willing
this will album be finished on time. Here I am in this another great Monday
morning, just wishing that I could drink this mug before it's time to open.
Another day under a southern sky
Kind regards,
Sam http://www.MrMusicman.com
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