The Limitations of No Talent (or, Sing a Song!)

A few months back, I got this phrase stuck in my head:

stuffed-up noses / Walmart roses

In my head, this sounded like the germinal stage of a country song, perhaps something that Kacey Musgraves might have as a b-side to her third single. (Do people even make b-sides anymore? God, I'm a relic.) But as I'm neither a singer nor songwriter, it sat in my email. no divisions and development possible from that digital perch.

Yesterday was a snow day at NCMC. ("Snow day" as an adult means "Stay at home and spend just under four hours grading 100+ writing assignments from six online sections," so it's a bit different from when I wuz a kiddo.) As I was grading and listening to '70s and '80s songs through the cable, a well-worn tune popped up that sparked me to shit out a sorta-kinda-actual song from the aforementioned words. And once I pictured singing it in the lugubrious baritone of John Grant, the lyric came pretty easy.

You’re the new kid in town again
Like in that shitty Eagles song
You feel the same refrain
Run circles 'round your brain
And you wish they all were wrong

But these small towns all smell the same
Back fat and desperation
You try and shirk the blame
That lies inside your name
Ever since your dim creation

CHORUS:

So we’ll just sing the blues
Through all these stuffed-up noses
As tears stain clear the hues
Of all these Walmart roses

You yearn for any kind of touch
The mother’s milk of human kindness
But biting wit’s a feeble crutch
No one seems to matter much
In your adolescent blindness

But when appears that vision fair
A spark of meaningful connection
Neither of you care
As he’s tousling your hair
And kindling obsession

Could he pierce the wan brocade?
The manufactured mien?
Your defense and your façade
Now stands off-kilter and odd
Time for a change of scene

CHORUS 2:

So let’s sing away the blues
Clear up our stuffed-up noses
It’s well past time to choose
Real love or Walmart roses

It's missing some connective tissue here and there, and I switched the pronoun to better fit the themes of John Grant's work, but I like some of the wordplay ("as tears stain clear the hues" has a nice roll off the tongue). If only I knew someone to finish it and sing it and consign it to the cutout bins of history.

Comments

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THIS is a CLOSE-UP?

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