I wrote this song over 20 years ago. It was inspired by a dear friend who’s a great writer, and by William Faulkner’s Nobel Prize acceptance speech. No shit. I entered this video into NPR’s 2017 Tiny Desk Contest. Here I am, unplugged. I’m always unplugged.

Bard Extraordinaire

A stack of dirty dishes, a sea of dirty glass
some tall and empty bottles on the stair
A pack of stoned disciples, flattened by the blast,
lay dreaming of the bard extraordinaire

Sitting at his table, got a lover in his bed
he ponders the weight of it all alone
Working on a novel, bout a guy named Ed
Whose fate, it seems, is never quite his own

Herman Melville died with his boots on
Left a wounded whale to his heirs
As he sailed amongst the flotsam and the jetsam of his age
And told it to the bard extraordinaire

A pot of blackened coffee, a home rolled cigarette,
the flicker of a candle in the night
A manuscript of fiction, unappreciated yet
a narrative of marinated spite

He wanders to the window, staring down the dawn
dreaming of his moment in the sun
When all the rippling muscle of his literary brawn
puts all the lesser talents on the run

Henry Miller died with his boots on
made his way alone and left no heirs
As he floundered with the flotsam and the jetsam of his age
And sold it to the bard extraordinaire

Yes it’s all in the language
Yes it’s all in the style
Yes it’s all in the tone you employ
And it’s too often scrap for the pile

A box of aging condoms,a pox of unpaid bills
a letter from a dedicated blonde
A lack of working capital, venereal ills
Too much coming, too much going, too much gone

William Faulkner died with his boots on
left a weighty business to his heirs
As he walked amongst the flotsam and the jetsam of his age
And pleaded with the bard extraordinaire

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