Junk, Song

That song that makes you chuckle

This morning while on my normal day off, scrounging inside the guts of my computer, and swapping hard drives I had my iPod on. I’m a metalhead 90% of the day. Now that I got that off my chest, I confess I love to hear a sultry voice while I do dirty work. Today while I fiddled and faded Norah Jones filled in the blanks for me.

I had to chuckle when I heard the first few words of the song. Instead of ruining it for you, see the lyrics and/or video below.

Norah Jones – Man of the Hour

It’s him or me
That’s what he said
But I can’t choose
Between a vegan and a pot head
So I chose you, because you’re sweet
And you give me lots of lovin’ and you eat meat
And that’s how you became
My only man of the hour

You never lie
And you don’t cheat
And you don’t have any baggage tied to your forefeet
Do I deserve, to be the one, who will feed you breakfast, lunch,
And dinner and take you to the park at dawn
Will you really be
My only man of the hour

I know you’ll never bring me flowers
Flowers they will only die
And though you’ll never take a shower together
I know you’ll never make me cry
You never argue
You don’t even talk
And I like the way you let me lead you
When we go outside and walk
Will you really be
My only man of the hour?
My only man of the hour.
My only man of the hour.

 

PhilosopherPoet

Standard
poetry

alone

he stands above the sink
and drums dumb thumbs
into the plastic pebbles
of his mobile

it is 10pm the cats are
nestled like miniature kettles
on the couch

he looks at the warm foam
floating in the sink
he ate
two burgers
tonight
gnawed at them
with intent

he leans over the sink
and washes
the grazed faces
dirty smiles

a claw of ketchup
curls over a finger
like a savage comma
reminds him
only the lonely have scars

only the lonely
ones dream
of days flaking
off the skin
like old food
thin memories
melt between bubbles
and beermugs

he exhales
sighs attempts
to muffle
nodules of tears
which swirl
chatter crumble
scrap and gurgle
into the plughole

Standard
poetry

dotting the i

he stabs the clothes onto the line
his hands feel damp at the soft seems
shoulders fold in the wind
toes clip the needle grass

he rivets another idea down
the scented stars watch him
and the nylon clouds paint emotions
beneath the seams of evening

tomorrow while his head is buried in
the plump pillow and fuel-injected birds
narrate the churning traffic

he will wait for the recumbent sun to
strum the dreams down into
the drain’s chortle and

his hound will punctuate the
peace with a guffaw

Standard