My friends over at Magnatune have set up a new site called MoodMixes.com.
If you are the sort that want to get music playing in your restaurant or shop then why not give them a try.
mariam’s cake
I just had a request from a fella in Venezuela for the lyrics to Mariam’s Cake so I thought I might pop them up here for one and all…
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Meadowlark, shouldn’t you fly somewhere warmer, my dear?
Let’s go outside holding hands.
Meadowlark, you know this is my favourite time of the year.
Let’s go outside holding hands.
Enter the day, I just arrived so I’ll take my time.
Hour by hour we see that there is no hurry, we take our time.
Meadowlark, I checked in the book and it’s not what it seems.
Let’s go outside holding hands.
Hey what’s up trees? Who gave your orders to drop all those leaves?
Well I you must, I suppose.
Ever since the day we fell up to stand down, there were mice in the aisles dressed in frocks and in gowns.
I won’t tell you its likely, you won’t tell me the news so we stand here in the dirt getting puddles in our shoes
Wondering why.
You call the number and I count the cost but although we’re a good team something has been lost
‘Cause it’s not been the same since the mice moved upstairs,
dreams of Mariam’s cake go down well with sancerre… Wondering why?
the hackney gentrification song
You know this place it means the world to me.
Knock it down build flats knock it down.
The first place I really felt home in London.
Now my life is in bags and my heart’s on my sleeve
And there’s so many memories I’d rather not leave.
When I moved here ‘The Four Aces’ club still stood proud
And ‘The Vortex’ on Church Street was in with the crowd.
Now ‘The George‘ is up next and my dear studio
And Vogue says that Hackney’s the in place to go.
Tesco’s are popping up like unwelcome weeds
And they just put a pound on the price of a pide.
The places we used to shoot pool: they’re all gone.
Whilst the prostitutes, pimps and drug dealers look on.
Louisa Jones on accordion
learning to write poetry
On a quest to develop my creative writing skills I have just discovered that I know nothing about the technical fundamentals of writing poetry. My bad, as the kids seem wont to say.
I have been lent an amazing book to help deflower my poetic innocence titled ‘The Ode Lesson Travelled‘. It is written by Mr Stephen Fry, a hero of mine who once promised me tea and cake in a letter but this never materialised due to his busy filming schedule!
…anyways, I have been having so much fun learning about iambic pentameter, enjambment and caesura I thought I might share some of my early efforts with the world!
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Removed from industry, the morning came
So silently my heart began to sing.
My marmite chops, already serviced by
The toasters toil, retired back upstairs.
Awake! Awake! Awake! Tell me what dreams
Do stir this soul away from sacred sleep?
At peace; the lists exhausted; now to my pen
I will go swiftly till we are found out.
Wanting for nothing, apart from another
warm body to hold this body to theirs.
————————————————-
There we go, that was painless… now for chapter four.
the ballad of hawkwood
An old traditional tune I learnt from Rachael Dadd called ‘Two Sisters’ set to new words of my own.
Written about the Hawkwood nursery run by my friends at Organiclea.
There is a fine gent christened Ru Litherland
Mulch, sow and then reap
There is a fine gent christened Ru Litherland
And he has green fingers on both of his hands
I’ll be good to the land and the land will be good to me
With the vicar’s fine daughter he dreamed a bold dream
To grow food for his kinsmen as nature decreed.
By the edge the forest they spied a fair patch
And to grow fruit and veg there a plan they did hatch.
The men of the hour dreamed of buildings not plants
A development would far more there profits enhance.
Our forefathers fought for this fair forest land
So now against the law was the businessman’s plan.
After two years had past did the council relent
So now we’ll work the earth as our forefathers meant.
Now if you past by here you may hear a tune:
Mulch, sow and then reap
Now if you past by here you may hear a tune,
The melody is old and the words will be soon.
I’ll be good to the land and the land will be good to me
this ungodly hour
somewhere between
the cows and the concrete
the aphalt and the sky
thats where i’ll be
and if you don’t hear from me know that i’m doing fine
what defines me?
does this skin and bone
labour too hard to find
all of the dreams
that others forgo for sake of an easy ride?
perhaps that naieve
but of them or of me
well i’m not sure that i’m so sure anymore
i used climb trees
i don’t do that anymore
perhaps that cos i’m wiser now
or maybe i scared i might fall
———–
i awoke at half past four again
rolled over in my bed
what the hell am i doing awake at this ungodly hour?
the moon, he plays his part
why on earth can’t i play mine?
cos you are not here with me awake at this ungodly hour.
so lay me down in a field of heather someplace that’s far from here
i miss your warm body
i miss it most this time of year
the sun just hurts my eyes
i know that it gives you delight
but you are not here with me awake at this ungodly hour.