A New presidential anthem

We had a "change" election this year, and as we head into a "change" administration, some real changes are called for. Near the top of my list is our timeworn presidential anthem "Hail to the Chief". I have an image in mind of Trump's supporters serenading our newly-sworn-in president with "Ladies' Man" which I humbly submit as a representation of a national mindset that seems to be coming into its own. Included here also is an earlier look into the same mindset, "The Window in the Ground" which Phil Calvert and I did back in 2000. 

We had a "change" election this year, and as we head into a "change" administration, some real changes are called for. Near the top of my list is our timeworn presidential anthem "Hail to the Chief". I have an image in mind of Trump's supporters serenading our newly-sworn-in president with "Ladies' Man" which I humbly submit as a representation of a national mindset that seems to be coming into its own. Included here also is an earlier look into the same mindset, "The Window in the Ground" which Phil Calvert and I did back in 2000. 

 

 

I don’t believe in unconditional love,

But when I fall, I fall without condition.

Suspicions feel like truth to me,  

But with you I suspect nothing.

Let me be your masochist martyr,

Let me be one of your happy flowers.

You can be my dark perfection,  

With your GOP sass, and your one-percent ass,

So I call out, “Shake it Baby, shake it Baby, shake it!

Shake it like a smallpox blanket.  

Fake it Baby, fake it Baby, fake it.

Fake it for this Chopard bracelet.

Frederick Moore, Voices  
Phil Calvert, Guitars
Doug Shreeve, Bass
Eric Wells, Drums
Produced by Phil Calvert & Frederick Moore

Deveaux had always been a quiet place
Where neighbors spoke from yard to lawn
And yawned the lazy months away,
The country club veranda
Like mimosas on a summer tray.

Speakers in the dark
Bombard the park with their waves,
A palpable sense of alarm.
Panic in the spark
That lights the darkness in rage.
A kind of people,
Who crawl from deep holes,
Inside the depot,
They think they’ve found a home.

Their eyes are large from lack of light
And their skin blends in with earth and stone.
Their voices hiss with poisoned wind.
This place can never be their home.
They eat the flowers from our gardens
And pull the sodded grass from our lawns.
Their children pee around our wooden benches
And they squat upon the open ground.

People in the park
Divine the marks on their faces,   
And they’re all the same.
Fuel in the spark,
A leaking ark for the graceless. 
A kind of people,
Who crawl from deep holes,
Inside the depot,
These are not people.

The people in the town are stirring, certain now,
The people in the town are certain, stirring now,
The people in the town are stirring, certain now,
To force the others down.
The people in the town are certain, stirring now,
The people in the town are stirring, certain now,
The people in the town are certain, stirring
Like the window in the ground.

Detailing oaths into the burning torches,
We hold the metal to the flames.
We hold our breath and hear the hiss of burning flesh
To find our focus in the pain.
We’ll wait until the evening song is over
And they dream about the tunes they sang.
With taser guns we’ll march them to the depot,
Into the wholes from which they sprang.

We are the people
Who’ve locked in deep holes
Another people.
We are those people!

Panic in the park
Bombards the darkness in waves.

Dark Moon

His words are to fathom,
He seeks a kind of dark perfection.
He roots for the random,          
Right or wrong, weak or strong.    
He hints at salvation,
A kind of bland but sweet confection.  
A due dispensation: 
 “Say ‘yes’ and I will happen to you,
Under a dark moon
And we’ll wail away on some dive-bar stage.    
In a dark room,
We’ll find a splintered haze and a spark.”

At first she strays, but then she stays;
She has her own kind of sense inside her.
She goes her own way,
Right and wrong, weak and strong.
She works random laughter,
Like hot wine that sparks inside her.
She finds her own way,
Right and wrong, right and wrong.  
Under a dark moon
Where we’ll wail away on some dive-bar stage,
And we’ll wander   
Through the wonders of our mangled song.  

At work he often passes his time making a list of things to wish for: 
A little more space to set up his drums,
A little more free time, 
Maybe a little less self-loathing.    
But this is it. These are his imaginable wishes.

He works for an insulation outfit
Where dozens of times per hour       
And hundreds of times per evening
He calls the owners of homes, half-hoping that they won’t pick up,
But when they do he greets them
In a manner calculated to inspire their confidence and trust,    
And he says to them, “Hey, tomorrow we’ll be out on your block and
We can inspect your insulation for free.
There’s no obligation, it’s perfectly free.”

Typically this is where they hang up,
And come the end of his shift, he often leaves
    without having produced a single promising lead.
But what’s worse is when someone turns it around on him,
Like the woman with the truly sweet voice
Asking him, “Michael, aren’t you ashamed of being such a loser,
Interrupting hard-working people at home with your bogus offers,
When all you’re really doing is reciting some sales pitch?”

Something’s been lost, something’s broken.
This morning there was blood in one of his eggs.
Surely nothing is pure,
And even the dreams of a puppy will grow into a cancer
If he’s been beaten enough,
Especially when he knows that he’s done it all
And he’s done it right.
Something’s been betrayed,
Something’s been defiled,
Something’s been taken down!

We’ll find our own way.
Till the histories are set down,
And our bones are white from sun washing,
We’ll find our own way,
Right and wrong, right and wrong.
Under a Dark Moon,
And  we’ll sail safe through an umbrous gloam,
Into the long swoon,
And the wonders of our mangled tunes.