Long before I became an obscure humor writer, I was equally unknown as a songwriter and poet. A sort of Robert Zimmerman of the South, if you will. The primary challenge with songwriting is getting the lyrics aligned with the melody. To do this, I would count syllables and search for words to fit the allotted space without sounding too awkward.
Here are some examples that didn’t work out.
Mary had a little cucumber.
Mary had a little kosher ham.
Twinkle, twinkle little space capsule.
Twinkle, twinkle little moonbeam in a jar.
As you can see, it’s not as easy as people like Bjorn Rudberg make it look.
If you’re new to Friday Flash Fiction, the musical director who chastises the tuba section for making farting noises, is Hester Van Cleef Wisoff-Fields. If you’d like to take a stab at this exercise in madness, head over to her blog for step-by-step instructions. To view the FFF Hollywood Squares Authors Block click here.
John drummed the eraser end of the number-two yellow pencil against a lined pad and stared out the window.
The music inside his head ran a continuous loop, in one ear and out the other. Along the route it passed a giant doing cartwheels, statues wearing high heels, and elephants playing tambourines.
“Bother me tomorrow,” he told his wife when she brought up the subject of pre-paid funerals. “Today, I’ll buy no sorrow.”
“We’ll die someday.” Angry, she began to stutter. “Now’s the time to doo, doo, doo it.”
The missing lyrics appeared as she stormed out the back door.
For those of you not familiar with the song, this my version of how John Fogerty discovered the lyrics for “Lookin’ Out My Back Door.”
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This is the blog of a woman who is seriously on the edge and I mean right ON the edge…no, not there… just a little bit further… further than that…no, further still…just a tiny bit more… just move slightly to the right a little…no, that’s too much…just move a tad to the left…that’s right, just there…now you’ve moved too far to the left… Damn, what part of the ‘on the edge’ do you not understand? Oh, and her matricidal boy genius, come devil spawn.
Or the three people I guilted into reading this blog, whatever.
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