I’m At It Again

That’s right, just when you thought it was safe to go back in the proverbial blogging water, here I am with my hand out again. I’m trying to get votes for my son’s band. “What?” you say, “We already voted for your son’s band!” you say. Well this is yet another contest and I could bore you with the details but, it may just be better to say, cast a vote for Diabology here:

combatrecs.com

and then read the details if you’re truly interested.

By the way, you can vote as many times as you are able until the contest ends on Dec. 30, so anything you can do is greatly appreciated. Also, because there are so many voters, the site keeps crashing making it even more annoying. It’s usually busiest in the evenings.

In other news, since I have my hand out so often, I hear that there is a poem about me circulating around the internet. You guys don’t think it’s true, do you??

There’s once was a blogger Marissa
Whose poems were really a pisser
She had quite a noggin
But then she stopped bloggin’
And some said they really did miss her

Then one day her blog reappeared
But readers found it a bit weird
‘Twas only the labor
Of asking a favor
Of all of her put upon peers

So politely disguised as a comedy
And sometimes with a lame apology
Here’s another she’s wrote
To elicit a vote
For her son’s metal band Diabology

So be you not fooled by her ditties
Her words may be clever and witty
But she’s really quite sad
And perhaps a bit mad
But at least cast a vote out of pity.

Diabology

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No Man’s Land

 

This one, inspired by my son’s birthday today.

Creepy spiders, badger’s nest, perhaps dinner for two
A wizard and a warlock and of course a witch’s brew
An amulet, a cigarette, those keys you never found
Spare coins, the remote control, the pet you thought had drowned
The wallet years gone missing though you never knew to where
Amazing the things you will find while combing Jesse’s hair.

Happy Birthday Jesse!

P.S. Thank you to everyone who voted for my son’s band in the Metal Devastation Band of the Month poll. They actually won! They got a blog spot featured here and will be in heavy rotation on the station all month as well as being featured on their Facebook page. I’m sure my son would be overjoyed if, as a birthday gift, you would give his band a like on Facebook or follow them on Instagram.

https://www.facebook.com/diabologyband/

https://www.instagram.com/diabologyband/?hl=en


Vending Machine Imodium

Out on the road a week now
And oh, the travelers fate
To suffer consequences
Of what I might have ate

That makes my bowels a liquid
I sit here turning blue
Suspect the eggs from Denny’s
On Route 82

Can’t make it to the drug store
If you know what I mean
I’ll get that cut-rate stuff
From the vending machine

Cost me seven dollars
My stomach’s still a jerking
Why am I not surprised?
This stupid stuff ain’t working

Vending machine Imodium
Oh you’ve done me wrong
Vending machine Imodium
That’s why I sing this song

I don’t know what I done
Stole cheated and lied
It feels like Satan’s minion
Crawled in my guts and died

And though I don’t deserve it
Of that I have no doubt
I’d give anything
If he’d get the hell out

Maybe get some cyanide
To help and get me through it
Because I’ll tell you one thing
This Imodium won’t do it

But out of this is some advice
If you’re traveling please do
Pack Imodium and avoid the Denny’s
On Route 82

Vending machine Imodium
Oh, you’ve done me wrong
Vending machine Imodium
That’s why I sing this song

Written in response to Cold Hand (Craig) Boyack’s Blog: https://coldhandboyack.wordpress.com/2017/06/15/i-could-write-a-country-song/comment-page-1/#comment-27548

Thanks for getting me writing again!

My Girl Left Me For Satan

My girl left me for Satan
She said it was transcendental
When she saw him at the potluck
At the New Satanic Temple
Well she left me with the dog and I
Am cooking all my food
But I guess I must admit that he’s
One charismatic dude

Chorus:

My girl left me for Satan
And I guess it’s just as well
Though it’ll be kind of awkward when
We’re all burning in hell

Well it just ain’t been the same now that
My life became unfurled
Since my baby left me for the king
Of the underworld
I’m tired and I’m beat up and
Well most of all I’m bored
And I’m strongly thinking I should just
Go and worship the lord

Chorus

Well he stole my soul and now I guess
He stole my girlfriend too
But I guess the bathroom mirror should
Have given me a clue
Cause the steam don’t cover lipstick
And the truth is rather mean
But it’s very clearly written there
Says, ‘Satan loves Erlene!’

Chorus

I’m strongly considering forming a Satanic country band. Who’s in?

A Late Lunch

I was bringing Ms. James her Meals on Wheels
She didn’t come to the door
I went on in and there she was
Lying dead right on the floor
I called the proper authorities
They showed up minutes later
To find me eatin’ her fried chicken
And her mashed potaters

Ouija Board

Oh Ouija board oh Ouija board
Not one to doubt your vision
Well rubbed with cloth the planchette notes
Of other realms or friction

To spell out words like AGNTHM
Or STRIMPH there is no telling
Interpretations seal the deal
And no account for spelling

For I suspect in afterlife
There’s really little mind
For any such* except perhaps
The spiritual kind

We tried to summon Lemmy but
In keeping our mind open
When the planchette spelled out 5 T H
We just went with Beethoven

But while many will doubt I guess
We’ll never truly know
If the gate to hell’s a cardboard toy
Created by Hasbro

*Refers to the double meaning of spelling, as in the grammatical kind, vs. the casting of spells

oujia_6

The Hipsters Downstairs

Some dudes moved in to our neighborhood
Wearing trucker hats that read ‘Hollywood’
There’s Mr. Park My Prius Just As Bad As I Can
Paul Giamatti and Social Cause Stan
Prius talking ’bout Alaska, how he volunteered
While he’s cooking tofu or something weird
Paul is so loud even Steve Jobs can hear
And we can’t decide if causes is Clark Kent or just queer

… Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

The hipsters downstairs
The hipsters downstairs
Nobody cares about
The hipsters downstairs
The hipsters downstairs
The hipsters downstairs
With their stupid facial hair
The hipsters downstairs

They rise at sunset say up all night
They just might be hipster vampires
Or more likely a werewolf for Paul with that beard
Nervous Nod causes could be Frankenweird
Apparently guitar is now the thing
They murder it all night, let’s hope that they don’t sing
And if I hear ‘In Alaska’ one more time
I’m gonna stick that guitar where the sun don’t shine

Chorus

They threw a party last weekend
They camped out in the yard
It wasn’t them throwing bottles I feared
But bustin’ out with Kubaya

Some dudes moved in to our neighborhood
Wearing trucker heads that read ‘Hollywood’
There’s Mr. Park My Prius just as bad as I can
Paul Giamatti and Social Cause Stan
And if I hear ‘In Alaska’ one more time
I’m gonna stick that guitar where the sun don’t shine
Or maybe call an Uber and tell the man
“Take ’em back to Alaska or Douchebagistan”

As promised, here is song number 2 of our Three Songs In Three Days Campaign. I don’t believe I’ve ever shared the lyrics to this one before either and that is probably due to the fact that it was mostly written by my husband. I just tweaked a couple of things and added the bridge.

This is the true (if slightly exaggerated) story of the neighbors who live below us. Fun fact! We actually practice in our apartment, right above their heads. We often wonder if this song goes through their minds and, if so, whether they realize it’s about them!