1. |
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It’s there around the edges,
It’s in the corner of my eye,
A mantle of greatness,
And I think I can read between the lines.
Is it a fight with a bottle of wine?
Is it a lucky gene?
Is it hardship in younger life?
Or the destiny of a Nazarene?
Is it clothes from the thrift shop?
Or is it the act of denial?
That everything you love is dying,
While you try to hold on to the style.
I can’t even write a love song.
I can’t even tie my shoes.
When I stand next to the old boys,
Who so eloquently put their blues.
What is it worth to Boko Haram?
What is it worth in a war?
What am I to think that it’s important,
For me to think at all?
Drop me a line Bobby Dylan.
Have a drink with me John B.
Write me a letter Johnathan Steinbeck,
Will you please facilitate me?
Tell me how Mr. Byron,
Tell me what is it I can’t see.
Dip me in the water John the Baptist,
Is it madness that I’m missing?
I can’t even write a love song.
I can’t even tie my shoes.
When I stand next to the old boys,
Who so eloquently put their blues.
But what is it worth to Boko Haram?
What is it worth in a war?
What am I to think it’s important,
For me to think at all?
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2. |
Country Ballad
06:48
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He says that he never sleeps
You forget that he can die
He's been farming all these years beneath
A red morning sky
He has twenty heads of cattle
And single flock of Sheep
His hands are hard as iron
But his hips are getting weak
The fire sometimes is the only light
Lit in the house
With the night and the wind prowling outside
And he in there as quiet as a mouse
And the dogs eyes are the only eyes
To which he comes home
The T.V the only voice
Other than his own
The clocks slow march through everyday
Follows him around
From the hour in the morning that he shaves
To the hour he lays his body down
And he sometimes goes to the watering hole
To soften that edge
Like a doe he sips at his beer
While gripping to the bartops ledge
And the packwolves will gather round
They are alright one on one
But in a group they'll scrutinize his limbs
Muscle from the bone
He used to have a brother to defend him
But he's lived, laughed and left him behind
His mother was his only love
But that's only the love of a mothers kind
His father hangs in the kitchen
His memory weighs a tonne
And each time he sees that dead mans depiction
He thinks of all the things he should have done
With the girl down the road
The heavy rope in the shed
Or the bastards in the pub
And all the things that they ever said
And the thought started long ago
The humming in his head
He realised it more than you think
More than he ever said
And it just goes
The wind blew softly
Around his door
It's time to go it said you know
You can't do this thing anymore
And he forgot to lock his house
For he left to quick
For He knew what he wanted to do
And he wanted to do it quick
He says that he never sleeps
You forget that he can die
He's been farming all these years beneath
A red morning sky
He has twenty heads of cattle
And single flock of Sheep
His hands are hard as iron
But his hips are getting weak
And the thought started long ago
The humming in his head
He realised it more than you think
More than he ever said
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3. |
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Death’s siren
God’s soul
A thimbleful of love
Deep down in the hole
In your animal skins
With your torch
With the jungle all around you
All I want to do babe is give you a taste
Make a speedball with you all the time to waste
Mix my heroin with your cocaine and needle it in
There’ll be no lines between us dear when we’re flowing thick and thin
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Daniel Whelan Dublin, Ireland
Daniel Whelan grew and developed as a musician in the rural idylls of South Carlow. Near the foot of Mount Leinster he learned finger style guitar and listened to folk, country and alternative staples. His literary writing style developed out of a stiff Catholic upbringing and an inherent desperation to outgrow it's fettered approach to love, human nature and emotion. He is a romantic. ... more
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