He writes a familiar tune,
it sounds like something I’ve heard,
but that’s absurd, I’ve never heard of this guy.
I try to purge it from my head,
but instead he haunts me, his Finnegan
has begun again to resound.
The sound is his, but is invasive,
a case of “where have I heard this song?”
It is wrong to think it; it sinks into my mind.
I find his lyric poetic. It’s pathetic
that this ‘no one special’ has found a combination
that works. The jerk’s somewhat talented.
I can’t refuse that this part moves me,
its groove behooves me to tap and drum
with fingers callused and numb.
It’s jazzy! A snazzy riff and key,
you’d think it was me who wrote it.
I’d vote it a 97; a great beat, it’s easy to dance to!
From what I hear, it is clear
that poetry is his thing. It rings with passion,
and is of a fashion that lends itself to song.
I’ve sold records after all!
I’ve gold records after all!
But this small time wordsmith has a knack.
I’ve broken my back to get to this place,
and this overnight “sensation” had never left the station.
And yet, his elation will be my damnation.
The man writes a good tune.
And he’s never rhymed moon with June or spoon…
the women all swoon at his love songs.
A pretty little ditty that stays with me.
I can’t see past his intent. I think it was meant
to distract me. It has only impacted me to follow his lead.
For indeed, his music is in my mind.
I could find a use for a snippet, or a lick – but the trick
is making it sound new. And it is true.
He writes a familiar tune.
© Walter J Wojtanik, 2014