From The Decemberists to Southern Culture on the Skids

My father is rarely doing nothing,
He’s always puttering around,
Making this, fixing that, reading, chess playing,
Even though he believes the computer cheats,
A possibility I suppose.

I don’t have the same skills he does,
Energy? Yes. Dexterity and vision? No.
I’d prefer to shutdown during a run
Letting my brain drift to nowhere
Unless, of course, I’m writing.

The pandemic, though, it’s making things better,
I know, how could I think that,
I don’t mean in a healthy kind of way,
This has been a disaster, but I once was told,
“Life is what you make of it.”

Yesterday, I made it bad, dark, gloomy
Until my birthright kicked in and doing something became real.
A little motivation from a friend,
A dip into the well of music streaming, and
Before long the mood was gone, the time passed, life began again.

Songs, some familiar, some never before on my radar,
A smattering of music from whatever genre
Made for a fairly irreverent list of songs
Making fun of spiritual soothsayers and judges
While proving tonal DNA runs deep in the recording industry.

Just as the genetic code from our parents does,
Puttering provided the energy to stop feeling sorry for the day.
The time, wasted, maybe, I’ll say put to good use
Because the psychology of getting over sucky moods
Depends on how you go about things.

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