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Johnny Noiπ Mar 2018
Recorded by Jim Lowe
Written by Fred Hertz and Charles Grean

C         F                C
I took my granny to a hootenanny
        G7                     C         Am
Now her silver hair is hanging down down down
       C                 F           G7
At the age of 93 she can sing in any key
         C                 G7                  C
She’s my hootenanny granny with a banjo on her knee


When the hootenanny came to town
F                            C
I took my gray haired granny down
                                G7
Much to my surprise she dug the scene
    C                           F
She traded in her walking stick for a banjo and a pick
    G7                                    C
And improvised six choruses of Good Night Irene

Repeat #1


She picked the Cotton Fields in G
F                             C
And then she rocked the Lemon Tree
                                       G7
She sang the Foggy Dew from night till dawn
    C
The Kingston Trio is the rage
    F
But add it up they’re not her age
          G7                                       C
She’s the one who knows where all the flowers have gone


She helped Michael row the boat to shore
F                              C
And when they hollered out for more
                                     G7
She sang a verse from Blowing in the Wind
    C
She helped John Henry lay some tracks
       F
Walked along with Reverend Black
          G7                                        C
While the crowd was walking out she sang Walk Right In

          F                C
I took my granny to a hootenanny
        G7                     C         Am
Now her silver hair is hanging down down down

       C                  F              G7
At the age of 93 now it’s Peter Paul and she
         C                 G7                  C   F C
She’s my hootenanny granny with a banjo on her knee
property of the respective artists
My self-summary:
Online dating is kinda new for me.
I have no chance finding mates normally,
Being endangered in France and Germany.

Mating season is March and April
You may not find me ******.
But I’ll remain faithful

What I’m doing with my life:
Cryptozoologists trippin’ over my footstep.
Guess I have that effect.
Better check, cause’ I’m being swept and kept
From the public eye
By the FBI, but that ain’t my style.
Just drop on by.
Take a seat. We’ll do a meet and greet.
Tell you my story.

The first things people notice about me:
I got thin lips and a big brow
A nose that’s flat and black

The most private thing I’m willing to admit:
Thought of some tips: Don’t borrow human clothes.
Eat mostly rats for snacks.

What I’m really good at:**
My hobbies include banjo.
Beware! When I throw down a hootenanny
Be ready to tango.
Cause’ forest animals know how to jamboree.
#poetry class #bigfoot
Mike Essig Jan 2016
Sing me your pain, Love,
and I will sing you mine.
Together, we will make
a harmony of dissonance.
Lift your voice with me.
Let us make a song
against the darkness.
However brief and fragile,
the melody belongs to us.
What more can there be?
What more is necessary?
  - mce
Qualyxian Quest Dec 2021
According to George Thorogood.

https://youtu.be/--AvCsh48bk
Aditya Roy Oct 2018
How do owls stay awake at night
Because they have beautiful
Quills
For flight
Where do owls stay
In the burrows
Sleeping in the wrong tomorrows
overlaid with façade of fiction = Mein Kampf

in summer re:
typed out during winter of my discontent,
when yours truly no spring chicken
stirred ruse to expatiate poetically
regarding following rhyming reason,
hence mine lovely bones
into graveyard will shortly fall.

No need for yours truly to dig deep,
(albeit bonafide figuratively)
by Dickens thru mine Uriah Heep,
a gnarled mass creep
ping, comprising, encompassing, glomming
abysmal existence strewn with hard times,

such that I wanna leap
out this metaphorical bleak house,
a black hole in the wall swallowing
i.e. disallowing any peep
ordinarily yawping, proliferating, flirting...
now fumfering lamely issued by keep
ping low profile super tramping cheap

trickster, our mutual friend
Matthew Scott Harris,
harkens back quite a few winters ago,
where lack of functioning heating unit
(think male ***** if ye will)
upended, rendered, discombobulated...
scrappy body electric hominid
to experience quality sleep.

Principal reason I write
to balance and aright
gratitude regarding unexpected tidy largesse
constituting special trust fund
(thank you dad -
spirit of Boyce Brandon Harris),
where eyes suddenly got bright,
and bushy tail wagged
incessantly day and night,
a sensible palliative temporarily
eased penury plight,
which cash equivalent,

equals countless denominations
characterized, granted, lorded...
Benjamins, Clevelands, McKinley's
plus dime a dozen legal tender
currency memorializing other presidents
blessedly alleviated quite
helpful thwarting necessity to fight
off bill collectors brandishing
armstrong lance compelling me
to summon black knight
in shining armor lodged within white
castle amidst prickly bishop

obviously one prone easily to excite
amusing little lord Fauntleroy
groomed as heir to throne,
enthusiasm since his birth did ignite
(Aesop pose) storybook life,
where fanciful elation did take flight
buzzfeeding, droning, fancifully feasting
on par with... I twist Oliver (all over)
courtesy Mister Bumble bee in flight
sweet nectar amidst lilies of the field
analogous to stripling Adam - fine lad
eve vent chilly seeking delight.

Ah to gather rosebuds while ye may
tis futile wishful thinking,
now at mine three
score plus three orbitz round sun,
which libido far out at bay
prurient predilections once
spawned time wracked to lay
waste vestal ****** such as... Little Dorrit,
now... raging hormones stagnant clay
hardened, atrophied, eutrophied,
jackknifed limp bizkit

impossible mission to kickstart
long bereft testy tickle
yar ****** quizzical,
slack jawed, and sullen at
deserted abandoned cobwebbed quay
ignored do not enter, keep out,
private property signals desiccated,
no place for Peter to take holiday
barring ingress to ply skin flute
amidst hollerin hootenanny,
perhaps convincingly explaining
welcoming Voldemort without delay.
Aditya Roy Jul 2019
Finding lost lamps in the endless river
Finding lost paths in the endless sea of shiny slivers
Superimposed by cherry blossoms looking to get red, falling like the samurai wind
A metaphorical sword in the word of the kicking and rolling with the deracinated punches
Leers and steers, queers and the prayers comin' in the firm hands and the strutting souls that just can't make it through
Trembling and positive rhapsody, heartbeat flows through these terrible feelings with ease and rough edges
That gives me some relief in the ruins of a time past and has gone ne'er to wait on the cusp of time
The temerity of the weak people gets on the nerves of the patient who wait to test time
Loving you is like a trap, and the journey ends up in the faintest memory
These are things that make the spring lust, undermining everything that I remember

The sunset line can be mistaken for this road of hopeful faith
And opportunity comes with it, and some lost souls find their destiny awakening
Impression and departure, it's just case of arriving somewhere but here in the future of adversity
Fickle lady luck you've made my life, a metaphorical world
Just for a metaphysical girl, in case I just forget
How funny it is when life is times in perspective
Adding a soundtrack too can make it or break it
etudes, classical violins and broken dreams in this town of blue notes and thick smoke and purple groove
Haze doesn't work as a substitute for connective interfaces
Freedom to bucolic cygnets too truant to dream desire and demean
Swimming in the pool with the same ducks and ugly as cracked places
Traces of you, smoldering smitten semaphoring thoughts of someone close to you

Killjoy, repeat joy, you don't say; tell me more about your bebop and hip pop
Hip hop doesn't stop, until the groove is gone and the night as right
I guess I'm to blame for that rap music
Trepidatious isn't it being surreptitious, sounds silence in the dancing dark
Your mountain dog helps you awake in mended ways of a villainous version of systems and resuscitated governments
Of hootenanny, heralding the vernacular and jokes and veritable wine of aged humor, the dogs of the military take it all
Sharing it with the slightly avuncular makes it singularly appealing

Like a rat crossing the vegetations to look for slavery
Forging the plots of the bubonic pathos of plagued souls
Logical isn't how the rebirth died with a topical topsy-turvy thing called metaphors and teenage angst
Tranches and branches, stigmatize these sprigs of hovering forest of the streams of streaming rivers through the Conrad lands of radiance and splendor
Reminding of madness, barren words of the baroness, iridescent memory
Telling us only time could wait for us, and tell us to fly above all these vermins and scar tissues
Sermonize and call the heaven-sent, and ask for destiny awakening, in the crimson red, celestial bodies that resemble celadon
Love is true, till is you, that flows through the river in you
I could tell you till my face is a different hue, I dream of a better time in this place called reality
Reminding myself everything is in reverse, and distant memory is just the closest feeling I recount when each iambic meter states the verses of this timeless life  
Remember from the blues and the acropolis and metropolitan incriminating, all these people going across like fleeting figures of the literary imagination
I could care less, and leave this city too, this is a thought I keep
If I could run away from this destiny too if I wasn't sleeping at the new kid's place in this town, drinking on the borrowed time of strangers
Trenchant, turpitude and tocsin is the truth when it comes to freely loading all your murderous cases of reprise and flickering lamps
True is just me that thinks it's relevant to this germane generation following the natural order, calling it the new substance
Simply railing through this blazing road, I'm on fire
Intermission and comes transience
This hip hop is old and so is the talk of condolences, shot rappers for gold and fake names
Riches from rags, to make homes out of the outbound trembling time that scares common time
And talk of immediate memory, and thespian and tulips blossom similarly
Putting on an act, like the midnight pretenders bending midnight spoons
Surmise and I suppose to be yours if I could get over these brighter stars of the darkness
Make your magnum opus with the correction and subjective precision, that you would show an etherized patient
Terse and cursory, you're spontaneity only syncopates with the silence
The redaction of statements would be criminal and I would rather like your writing on some stolen notebook
Grasping and gaping Centauri, releasing gases like the solar chrome horses
Inane and intermittent, aren't these sunshine beams, God wouldn't want me to be a sagacious beam
In the unforgiven law of the supposed religious belief and the dream weavers, make of the same sky we share
They might mistake the distance of the Sun, for God's light shining on cues
So, says the man who sold the world, to the cumulus accord that governs the capricious desert
Surpassing this law takes some law and serfs, breakfast is served by the smurf-head
The sun shines on us all, especially those who have mouths to feed
And don't understand boulders, unsteady tears, and cologne
They revel in the thought of seeing sunshine on their weary shoulders the coalition of the hollow men
Country roads, hitchhiking, I'm lost on road called sunset free street, the straws burning
People ask me, why I never appear on this trailblazing cars and find a hilarious lintel saying "This way for Love."
Suppose, I should tell them that I'm famously private and I don't take rides from strangers and don't lend hands to those without money
Love talkin' about that sometime, honey
Sometimes is never and some semblance of the past that was fiduciary
Smug and shy, I'm not sure that guy brings me some childish dreams and inspired, stirring, and compelling stories
No need for yours truly to dig deep,
(albeit bonafide figuratively)
by Dickens thru mine Uriah Heep,
a gnarled mass creep
ping, comprising, encompassing, glomming
abysmal existence strewn with hard times,

such that I wanna leap
out this metaphorical bleak house,
a black hole in the wall swallowing
i.e. disallowing any peep
ordinarily yawping, proliferating, flirting...
now fumfering lamely issued by keep
ping low profile super tramping cheap

trickster, our mutual
friend Matthew Scott Harris,
where lack of functioning heating unit
(think male ***** if ye will)
upended, rendered, discombobulated...
scrappy body electric hominid
to experience quality sleep.

Principal reason I write
to balance and aright
unexpected largesse
(thank you dad), where
eyes suddenly got bright
and bushy tail incessantly

wagged day and night,
a sensible palliative temporarily
eased penury plight,
which cash equivalent,
viz four Benjamins alleviated quite
helpful thwarting necessity to fight

off bill collectors brandishing
armstrong lance's compelling me
to summon black knight
in shining armor lodged within white
castle amidst prickly bishop
obviously one prone easily to excite

amusing little lord Fauntleroy
groomed as heir to throne,
enthusiasm since his birth did ignite
(Aesop pose) storybook life,
where fanciful elation did take flight
buzzfeeding, droning, feasting

on par with Mister
Bumble bee in flight
sweet nectar amidst lilies of the field
analogous to stripling Adam - fine lad
eve vent chilly seeking delight.

Ah to gather rose while ye may
tis futile wishful thinking,
now at mine three
score orbitz round sun,
which libido far out at bay
prurient predilections once

spawn time wracked to lay
waste vestal ****** such as... Little Dorrit,
now... raging hormones stagnant clay
hardened, atrophied, eutrophied,
jackknifed limp bizkit
long bereft testy tickle

yar ****** quizzical,
slack jawed, and sullen at
deserted abandoned cobwebbed quay
ignored do not enter, keep out,
private property signals desiccated,

no place for Peter to take holiday
barring ingress to ply skin flute
amidst hollerin hootenanny,
perhaps convincingly explaining
welcoming Voldemort without delay.
Mike Hauser Dec 2023
Cemeteries can be scary  
Passing by whistling a tune
With the shifting of the shadows
Below the glow of a blood moon

Tombstones whisper their owners names
While trees creak in the winter breeze
As both my mind and my eyes
Play ghastly tricks on me

The sound I fear, I hope I hear
Is that of a lone Owl
And not a hootenanny
Of Ghostly Spirits on the prowl

It's hard to keep these knocking knees
From giving out in protest
As my racing heart skips a beat
Imagining what will come next

As I pass by this graveyard
Whistling the driest of tunes
Cemeteries can be scary
Below the glow of a blood moon

— The End —