This is Wrong, Right?

 

This is Wrong, Right?

 

He’s claiming he can’t strum it -

I’m just a campfire guitarist, see?

we nod, it’s a standard setting,

his done thing, not letting

practice get under his skin

and from out of somewhere within,

Alex hits the drums – punctuates him.

But you put up, shut up,

and maybe rhythm sections

indulge in a bit of back to basic

eye-rolling. That’s him, that’s me

waiting for a cue –

meantime he’s given a G Minor,

patient in her rough good humour,

so we can all swing it together.

And there’s something here

isn’t it? Like, decades back

looking, seeing nothing of this, that,

hit the road, Jack,

just static, grey snow,

then white out - there you go, that’s me.

Who could’ve caught it,

or said to your fuzzy futures go,

don’t pack ice, toss it behind,

close doors after you

and who knows what’ll you’ll find?

There are some faces, still

getting grainy, camera roll back and mix

pointing fingers, scrolling credits,

guilty as charged pay the debit

and you do try not to forget

director’s chairs and producer’s hats

as she rosins up to play

something about life's best days

not slipping through her fingers

all the time - try to catch it every minute,

how your future’s bright -

but this is wrong, right?