Skip to the end section.
Under the last line.
The rest is just warm-up.
I wrote this afterwards.
An ode is a song. Or so they say on the internet. But who’s going to believe that sh…tuff?
I mean, what kind of a word is Ode anyway? It’s got to be either an old word or a new one. Cause it’s not one from my generation. Not by any stretch of the chalk.
But anyways; just say that it is a song. Then this isn’t an Ode. Because there’s no way that you’ll be able to find any rhythm or rhyme to it. And without them things then you’re just left with nothing. And a dull nothing at that.
A few years back now, I recorded some songs and stuck them on SoundCloud. One of them got almost a thousand listens. Some of them even rhymed and, for sure, they’ve all got rhythm. But none of them are Odes even though I nicked some of the lyrics from ABBA. Good news is that they haven’t rocked up, in their platforms and pearly smiles, to complain. Not just yet.
I’m having a late Hemingway moment.
The kind where you pause and analyse.
The kind where you’ve lost your mojo.
The kind where you need to just stop. Period.
But I’m not going to. Because I have to write an ode.
Odes are funny creatures because they don’t have legs.
You’d think that I’d be okay with that, wouldn’t you.
Because I’m much the same.
Put me in a hole,
And I look the same
As when I’m stood up.
Which I can’t do,
Because I don’t have legs.
They got plucked away,
By a train.
Yeah, no; don’t worry;
It doesn’t hurt anymore.
I play an accordion sometimes
In the centre of town.
I play well.
But they don’t hear my song.
They don’t see my face.
They don’t see me.
They’re just wondering why I’m stood in a hole in the ground.
But I least I have the balls…
No, that’s not what I was going to say.
I was going to say that
At least I have the balls to