Day 67: Write a song

I actually feel like this one wasn’t working. In my head, this is a world in which music has been outlawed, thus driving it underground. Hence my creation of Reggie. I’ve also got it in my head that it’s not just music, but lots of creativity. I reckon this one does need some work, but I might be onto something. 

Walk Away

The Understated Strawberries

Walk away, never looking back

You’re in that situation, you don’t know how to act

He gives you that look, you act ashamed

You turn around, You walk away

He chases after you, apologises to you

He never wants to see you cry, again

He knows its too late

I guess we’re facing fate

Chorus

You say ‘I’ve got nothing left to find

I know that, I’m gonna leave it all behind

I wanted to, Say goodbye just one last time

So now you know, I’m leaving you.’

 

Reggie looked up from the yellow legal pad in front of him. He pondered. Ponder was the only word to describe what he was doing, rolling words around his mouth, feeling them moulding around his teeth, flowing with the rhythm in his head. He could feel the song  shaping, moulding into the full-fledged hit that the future holds.

‘This all you got?’ He asked, quizzically. ‘Very… What’s the word… unfinished.’

‘No, I think the word you’re looking for is raw. It’s powerful. It’s from a time in my life that…’ Ali drew up short as Reggie gave him the look. Everyone in this business knew Reggie’s look. If you got the look, you’d made a mistake. Ali hoped it was just a minor one.

‘We’ll start with the band name. It’s not happening. It needs to be snappier, shorter and really hit the audience. Second… I need more. I need to know what’s happening with verse two. You got a middle eight? I need it.’ He smiled, teeth bright and white in his mouth. ‘But, I also need this song, boy. Come back with the rest. Tomorrow.’ He relaxed, lighting up a cigar. ‘This is going to be a hit with the masses…’

The Idiot in Tin Foil

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Day 58: Write a poem about a tomato

As you may have noticed, poetry is not my forte. In fact, I’m really bad at it. So I can only apologise for what comes next. 

What even are you, tomato, tomato?

No decisions on how to pronounce.

For those who love you, tomato, tomato,

So keenly on salad they pounce.

And yet there are those who, tomato, tomato,

Have no will to go near, not an ounce.

Are you a fruit, tomato, tomato,

as scientists tend to proclaim.

Or possibly veg, tomato, tomato,

From others, always the same.

There is only one choice, tomato, tomato,

To eat you, I fear, is the game.

How do we pronounce you, tomato, tomato?

With an ay or an ah, I’m confused.

Is it ay as in may, tomato, tomato,

As the Americans say, so bemused.

Or ah as in ma, tomato, tomato,

My ideas light bulb has fused.

So now here we are, tomato, tomato,

At the end of the poem, I’m pleased.

Writing poems is hard, tomato, tomato,

But through this one I seem to have breezed.

Ah, now it’s lunchtime, tomato, tomato,

Time to pair you with bread and some cheese.

The Idiot in Tin Foil

Day 11: Write an ode to an onion.

I’d just like to get it on record, I’m really bad at poetry. 

Oh Onion, sweet onion, alas we must find,

So many layers of you

Red onion, white onion, let us be kind

For without you we’re nothing, it’s true.

Take broth, or stew, or bolognese

It would take years for man to create

Any true comparison

And though you are used in a number of ways

It is fair and fortunate

That ever true, you are the one.

And so, sweet onion, we say goodbye,

With this our farewell song,

And though, our onion, you make use cry,

You remain in use by the throng.

And without your inducing of our tears,

We remain indebted to you

And your kind, so many, lots

You remain our favourite throughout the years,

And though it may make us blue,

Do we count you with shallots?

The Idiot In Tin Foil