Sunday, August 12, 2012

Grunts from the Wordgrump (11)



Prompted into poignancy by this forlorn message from the music box of a loaner car,



There is no song . . .
. . . when you’ve tracked, calculated the points, and the scale stays as flat as you are fat
. . . when a birthday begins a new decade that makes you sound older than you are
. . . for the lividity that fills your spleen when a social gabber interrupts the delicacy of decision-making during endgame
. . . to capture the joy in your heart when a canine bully at the park finds himself flipped on his back by the thrust of your Saint’s massive head
. . . that can even come close to capturing the “thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears”
. . . to repress the inward smirk of schadenfreude as you’re told of the egomaniac’s fall from fame
. . . loud enough to drown out the damn fool idiot whose heart is full of song
. . . to adequately excoriate the theological troglodytes who are rife among the churched and the unchurched.
. . . like a deliciously obscene ditty, especially if you’ve made it up yourself
. . . like the ones sung by dear old Dad
. . . harder to listen to than the “our song” you had with your ex
. . . that won’t be overworked or overwrought on a TV singer contest
. . . more arresting and unusual than the one sung by a true bass
. . . that  will clutch your heart quicker than the first tune sung by your child or grandchild
. . . that you should give more thought to choosing than the song that will be featured at your funeral

 












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