Bad things can do this too you, solitary confinement may do this to you but one thing for sure being cooped up in the belly of a 22′ beast on yet another rainy day is sure to do this too you. I’m loosing my mind but in a fun and lyrical way. My fingers work the fret board of my uke like Jimi Hendrix while the most ridicules songs hum on my vocal chords
Like a jacked rabbit with a nicotine habit I’m always on the run.
A vocal criminal lyrics are my arsenal ukulele get away cookie thumping gingerbread man
Sky is grey today I wanna play today can’t get outside weather wont abide.
Winters prisoner can’t get a tan in here mind slipping fast never meant to last
Rockin it and rolling it like my uke has stolen it my four string is my gun
I sing to the rich I sing to the poor I sing to anyone knocks at my door
Theres nobody here I’m out of beer better get moving better get groovin got a keep moving I’m out of here
Ok I think you get my point, these days batshit crazy is starting to feel pretty normal which should be totally freaking me out but for some reason it’s feeling pretty damn good. My only savior at this point is to pack Brompty and catch the first plane to Maui before the last remnants of my brain fade to darkness and that’s precisely the beauty of my folding iron horse. She’s always there waiting when I need her most.
The tropical sun is only 6 hours from here, balmy trade winds, sand between my tanned toes and enough deep blue sea to share with the world. This pale face needs to go native. It’s not so much the work I’m doing that’s making me crazy, it’s just that they expect me to not only show up three days a week but then I’m expected to stay for 4 hours of my day, it’s like slavery I tell you and am about ready to chew my own foot off to escape.
“We can’t stop here, this is bat country!”
― Hunter S. Thompson