New lyrics: An Ode to Willowby

I'm travelling on the bus between Glasgow to Edinburgh right now. It is 5.54pm according to my phone, and I have one leg elevated on the heaters to my left, and my foot on the floor to my right. I'm conscious that my music is far too loud on the bus and that it may be heard by others, but I don't care. I'm listening to a remix of 'Money' by Innerpartysystem by Cenob1te, which is a great dubstep tune. I'm passing fields, and a rock thing in the distance that resembles a rubbish Ayres Rock (if that's how it is even spelt). I'm hungry, I haven't eaten anything since 9.30 and I won't be home until at least 7pm. However I'm quite happy that on this bus journey (and from the previous Motherwell to Glasgow journey) I have been able to write another new set of lyrics.

The song is written in an ode poem format about an elderly woman both me and my friend Stuart met one day in Glasgow's George Square when we were aged around 14. We were sat upside down on a bench, chatting to one another in fake American accents. Someone sat next to us on the bench (which we found incredibly odd as who sits next to two teens who are on a bench upside down!), an old lady. She started instantly chatting to us. At first we conversed with her, in American accents, upside. However to be polite, we sat the right way up...still talking in the accents however. Stuart told her he had 9 sisters, all from Texas (or some other random U.S state). She completely believed all these lies. But as she confided in us, all the stories of her family moving away or dying; the family she'd never met; the horrible flats she lived in, and the solitude her life was filled with, we felt immensely guilty. We had lied to this woman for a long long time. She even at one point took her purse out, and being so trusting opened it infront of us to try and give us both 2 quid each. We refused and suggested to her not to take her purse out in public like that (as she had quite a bit of money in it by the looks of it). She left, happy and fulfilled. Like we'd let her release years of misery. But she was a paradox, because she did it in the most jovial way. I had and still have respect for her. She didn't care about the far-fetched lies; she enjoyed it. She enjoyed the company, and I felt sorry for her, even though she seemed so happy. Who knows what happened to Mary Willowby, but I hope she is in a happy and better place,

An Ode to Willowby

Her quiet still waits, in a square so loud
As jokers sit, our shoes, pointing at the sun,
A blemished voice through the crowd,
And as brash 'Southerns' we succumb,

Where moths may crawl, gold there glistened,
Honest decline unlocked that isolated prison
Lullabies, all lies, facade spun as she gasped and listened,
Papermashy collequialism with no accurate rhythm,

Wrinkled tales of people unknown,
An abandoned soul, who sails alone,
Directs our eyes to skyscrapers of bone,
She'll go there, with no one to phone,

The jovial refuses to shine, shrouded in reality,
And she packs her trunk, saying goodbye to our circus,
Under the quiet umbrella of brutality,
Us, a short remedy, to her ongoing curse,

Her quiet still waits, in a square so loud
Who sits on that bench in our memory, continuously,
We hope you've gone to a better place,

Written 19th August 2011 from Motherwell to Glasgow and Glasgow to Edinburgh. Listening to Other Lives: 'Tamer Animals' and 'For 12' and Placebo 'Breathe Underwater (Piano Version)'. In style of an Ode poem, in memory and praise of Mary Willowby.

And so as I catch to my wife over Blackberry Message about her making me a pie and a mini pizza (which sounds amazing!), I will leave you now,

Watch this space,
Wullae

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