becoshood

It wasn't until I was listening to the 45's loaded into my husband's reconditioned juke box, that I realized my love for spinning a rhyme, came from my mom's music.  Mom has a collection of 45's still in the harvest gold plastic record spindles.  We would unearth them to play, laugh about, and hear Mom's stories of each song.  Invariably the songs would be too slow for our pace, too lame. 

This would of course cause us to 'rewrite' the next lyric, & snap it out to each other, before the actual singer of the song could sing the next intended verse.  My brothers and I would try to rival each other in an outrageous jr high school brand of humor for each song.

Usually my Mom would say, 'Ok, that's enough' until sometimes we would really craft a golden rewrite, and she would catch herself laughing too, caught off guard as a parent, just one of the kids too.

Oh Mableline, why can't you be true . . . why are you angry I'm stalking you,
Everybody loves somebody, somehow  . . . even if they are fat just like a cow,
Groovin on a Sunday afternoon  . . . running from you, you crazy loon, life would be ecstasy, if you would stay away from me,
She got the way to move me, Cherry Ex-Lax, she got the way to move me,Oh Cherry-Baby!
My baby bought me a letter, said she couldn't live without a vowel anymore, don't care how much I've got to pay, wheel of fortune's here to stay, my baby bought me a letter,
Young girl, get out of this line, you can't buy beer or smokes this time,
better run girl, cops aren't fun girl,
I wish they all could be paraplegic girls, the girls who walk, show offs who can, wish they were girls like me who can't stand,
Then I saw here face, like hit by a meat cleaver, not a trace, of last night . . .
usually when Mom took the records away.

Politically incorrect kids! My poor Mom.  She smoothed our rough edges with tolerance, open mindedness, and a global view.
Thank goodness!

Sometimes I still find myself in the middle of a rewrite, my husband's juke box playing in background.  The juke box he spent years refinishing, the poetry i spent years waiting to publish, together in rhyme.

There's a kind of  hush all over the world, tonight, until you fart tonight, la la la la.

Caught in a crack, and I can't get out, I can look up your skirt right now, baby, why can't you see, what your doing to me, when you step on my face, baby. (fade) when you step on my face, baby.