Album: Summer’s End

New! Preview or Download tracks or the entire album at: Bandcamp

Garnet Rogers - Summer's End

1. The Road to Tobermory 2:20
2. Old Campfires 2:47
3. The Sweet Spot 6:08
4. Our Boy 6:00
5. Shadows in the Water 4:00
6. Sleeping 3:55
7. My Old Man 4:30
8. Summer’s End (1) 6:10
9. It’s a Gift 7:12
10. Did Trouble Me 6:20
11. Summer’s End (2) 5:43

Bonus Tracks
12. Sailor’s Rest 6:27
13. A Fireside Chat 6:66

©2014 Snow Goose Songs

After releasing “Get a Witness” in 2007, I came to the decision that I might be finished with recording.
My method of working was part of it; an intense and frenzied state of self inflicted madness lasting usually 2 or 3 weeks, where I would start with band sessions for 3 or 4 days, and then a week or so of my overdubs… (guitars, violins and flute and whatever else was at hand) then mixing , and finally presenting to the world the result… which may or may not have been what I had intended.
It was difficult on me and everyone around me, and the 2 or 3 weeks surrounding the live sessions of ” Get a Witness” resulted in a physical and emotional collapse for me and a resolve to never go through it again.
There was also the downloading issue, my opinions on which I won’t bore you with here, except to say I won’t be part of someone else’ business model which is predicated on me giving them for free what they are selling at a profit.
New songs came and went, largely unsung and forgotten.(I found the constellation of tiny red lights as people switched on their cameras during shows to be distracting…and the results posted later on Youtube were embarrassing.)
So I went on strike.
I have continued to play and love live shows, but the new means of distributing music was baffling me, and it felt better to walk away from it.
While all this was going on, my elderly parents, Al and Valerie Rogers, both began to fail, and most of my energy and my wife Gail’s energy turned to caring for them during their long and difficult slide. Work became very much secondary to the more urgent needs of my family.
My Mother passed away in June of 2012, and my Dad passed in January of 2013.
In the wake of all that, coupled with the loss of several old friends, most notably my dear and much loved friend Bill O’Neill, of Ottawa, I felt very much as if another whole chapter of my life had closed. My immediate blood family had vanished, a treasured friend was gone, and the world now looked very different.
So in May of last year, I looked through some notebooks and realized I had a group of songs which largely reflected what had been going on in my life, both good and bad, and I decided to make a record of them, if only for myself.
I needed to feel creative and connected to my world again, so I resolved to end the strike.
(Besides, nobody had noticed.)
Whether one might be able to sell enough copies to re coup the production costs became somewhat secondary to me. I simply wanted to make a record after all that had gone on.
So in June I went to Scott Merritt’s studio and we began to set down songs in a much more relaxing and enjoyable way…just me with a guitar, with the idea that we would decide later what else, if anything was needed.
It was a lovely way to work.
Scott’s wife Sue, is a master gardener and Scott and I would begin the day by sipping tea and watching the hummingbirds and bees at their work outside the window. As the seasons passed the scene would change, and as we were doing the final sessions in the new year, the leaves had changed colour and fallen, the hummingbirds had long since departed and now the jays and juncos and cardinals were staging their own production of West Side Story in the snow atop the feeder.
As the colours changed in the garden so did our idea of what shape the record would take.
What we arrived at was a much quieter and more stripped down sound than I had imagined at the outset.
So, for all those well meaning folks, who have over the years asked me if I had any recordings of just me and my guitar with none of “that other electric shit”…here you go.
And for those who more kindly say, “Where is your fiddle?…I miss your fiddle,” the answer is that Gail and I were in a serious car crash some years ago, (an SUV drove through us at a stop light) and playing is painful now, if not sometimes impossible.)
The string tracks you hear on this record are largely courtesy of massive doses of Ibuprofen. That being said, I also have missed the fiddle (and the cello and the viola too), and am happy to have them on this record.
Thanks as always, to David Woodhead for his beautiful and sensitive playing.
Thanks to Sue, for the beautiful photos, her friendship, and her ability to move like a Ninja upstairs while Scott and I were trying to capture the most intimate nuances of various fragile and antique instruments downstairs.
And to Scott, whose friendship and patience and beautiful artistry means so much to me. I went into this project knowing only that whatever happened, I wanted (for the first time in my life ) for it to be a collaborative effort.This is my 4th project with Scott, and he has proved to be utterly without ego as regards the music, and unlike so many others who sit behind the mixing desk, has never made a suggestion for any reason except to serve the project.I knew that going into this that were I to run into a snag or a dead end, he would find some graceful way out.
Above all, I need to publicly thank Gail, who once again had to live with a distant and distracted husband for the better part of six months. We were sitting in a restaurant one night early in the project and in the middle of telling me a complex story about her day she noticed my inattention and asked what I was thinking. I had to tell her that I was trying to figure out how to play an Eminor sus 4 something- or -other chord in a not-quite C, not quite G tuning…the result being that I was pretty much useless as a dinner companion.
As always this record is for her.back to topA Note on the Instruments
If you aren’t a “Guitar Geek” you might want to move along…
Those who come to the live shows have come by now to expect to see on stage a row of elderly and antique guitars each of which has for me, its own distinct personality and sound, history, (and, in some cases) a unique set of problems in terms of playing.
I have been searching out and collecting vintage guitars from what is considered the Golden Age of American luthiery for some years now…mostly Gibsons, and mostly from the years 1928 to 1946. Part of the fun of it for me is simply the search and the human factor in each discovery and transaction. I have met so many extraordinary people over the last 20 odd years of collecting, in places like Sioux City Iowa (where I found the only Martin in the collection…a 1943 000-18 formerly owned by the guy who wrote the song “Convoy”)…to Calgary, where a former WWII Mosquito pilot sold me an Epiphone Frontier to get the funds he needed to buy a GPS for his ultra light plane. He was 80 some years old, and his wife wouldn’t let him drive the Harley anymore after he crashed it…He was a feisty little cricket of a man, who six months later, as I predicted to him, flew the plane into power lines and died. (“Better that than dying in a hospital bed full of tubes,” he had said when I warned him of how foolhardy I thought he was being.)
In Kalamazoo Michigan, I met Aaron Cowles, a sweet and gentle former employee of the Gibson company, who was a not only a wonderful builder, but had an encyclopedic knowledge of the company history, dating back to its founding.
He be-friended me and built for me a couple of wonderful slope shoulder Jumbos based on the design of the actual 1934 Jumbo he sold me…a guitar so rare and desirable that I had never seen one live in all my years of searching. It is this guitar which is mostly heard on this recording. Holding it and playing it is like being in a cathedral with strings stretched across the ceiling.
Aaron passed on just before this record was finished, and I cannot pick up one of his guitars without thinking about him and reflecting on a life well lived…He was a kind and humble and generous man. I was lucky to know him.
The other guitars are a 1953 Gibson J-200 which I found on the Web…a model I always coveted as it was the first good guitar I had ever seen as a child, watching my uncle Norman Bushell play…and a Gibson J-45 from 1942…another rarity from the first months after America finally entered the War, and built without a truss rod, due to the shortage of metal. The Gibsons from this period were mostly built by women…the” Rosie the Riveters”who took over when the men were doing war service.
The other guitar of interest on the record is from 1904 or 1905, as near as I can reckon…another Gibson, also from Aaron, and which is so rare and so bizarre in design and execution as to defy description. It is the guitar one hears on “Summer’s End (2)”… a massive carved instrument finished in black and pearl, with a hollow neck. If Darth Vader had spent some time as a professional wrestler and then decided to become a folk singer, this would be his guitar. It is so early an instrument, and so rare that although it has a model designation, (Model O) I have yet to see two examples made the same way…the handful I have seen pictures of all differ wildly. It is difficult to play, being so big, but wonderful beyond words to have vibrate next to one’s chest.
The two electrics are an early 50’s Les Paul, and a 12 string octave mandolin/ guitar made by my friend Mike Spicer at the Peghead in Hamilton Ontario.
The nylon string guitar on “The Road to Tobermory” is a plywood number from Brazil…I paid 90 bucks for it and it sounds fine…go figure.
The violin I used is a French Medio-Fino…a pawn shop find from the early 20th century, and is my go to fiddle when I am able to play.
The viola and the cello are both of German make and from the late 1800’s….both again pawn shop finds from Philadelphia and Fargo ND respectively.
David played a Steinway from the late 20’s and his basses were his usual home made fretless Fender bass, and an upright of uncertain parentage.
Sorry for the excessive detail, but some people really want to know this stuff…and to others , they just sound like guitars.back to topThanks as well, to
Mike Spicer, John Templeton, Chris Pahud, Roger and Gertie, Troy and Jennie, Chris Greencorn, Juanita and Mike, Georgette, Joan and Dana, Mercedes Wilson, Archie Fisher, and particular thanks to Susie and Karla and Cynthia and Jeff and Jim at Flemingartists, whose friendship and support during the last few years has been steadfast and unflagging.

back to top

1. The Road to Tobermory.
A tune in memory of my dear friend, Bill O’Neill. Bill was for 20 years one of the best friends I have ever had, or expect to have. He passed in April of 2013, and I still feel the loss on an almost hourly basis.

back to top

2. Old Campfires
A poem written by my maternal grandfather, Sidney Bushell and set to music by my brother Stan around age 15 or so.The shore referred to in the song is where I spent the happiest hours of my childhood, just west of Canso NS.

These well loved places we often have seen
are hidden now where our fires have been.
Black ashes lie beneath the silent snow.
Now burnt-out, hopeless embers
these we know.
They wait for us and Springtime, you and I
once more shall linger here
and by and by
these dreary shores will be decked in green again
This silent ice shall disappear and then
these stark grey stones, new-decked with fronded fern
shall smile again to welcome your return.

back to top

3. The Sweet Spot
We bought a small house in Canso a few years back, right on the harbour, a short walk from the house where my grandparents lived when I was a child. It is a wonderful thing to be able to re-visit and re-connect with the scene of one’s childhood. I am grateful to have been accepted into the community and to have made so many friends there.

There’s a half moon above the tumbling clouds.
the road is dark and wet.
silent forest to the right of me
cold water to my left
cold water dark and restless
beyond the wind-blown trees.
half an hour or more now, to the door
I’m fumbling for the keys.
And in the morning sunlight fills the room
spills across the floor
coffee in the kitchen
bright flowers ’round the door
late at night there’s candlelight
and a window on the west
lights across the harbour
in this town I love the best
I found the sweet spot….

Now my footsteps bring me
where as a child I stood
Sweet fern uncurling to the sky
sweet mayflower in the wood
West wind on the water
the day is cool and fair
Black tea on a driftwood fire
sweet woodsmoke in the air
I found the sweet spot…

across the miles I miss you love,
and hold you in my heart
from the moment I first saw you
I loved you from the start
all the years that went before
I knew what I had missed
that night beneath your porch light
that night that we first kissed.
I found the sweet spot…

Never wanted fame or money.
(Well maybe not that much…)
I want your smile I want that kiss
I need your healing touch
I want that look that’s in your eyes
when I look back at you
Want to find that sweet spot
find it here with you….

back to top

4. Our Boy
Listening to a Canadian Forces major describing his unit’s work in Afghanistan, guarding young girls and keeping them safe from the Taliban as they went to and from school.

Well you’re too late.
I’m sorry you missed him.
He was standing right here
not an hour ago.
he threw his bag in the back seat
we hugged and we kissed him.
He got into the car and pulled out on the road.

He put a hand to a pocket
and he pulled out a cigarette
I know he said that he quit
I guess that he lied
He blew smoke out the window
I saw his eyes in the rear view
once last wave goodbye and we all went inside.

And he left you a letter
which he said not to open.
It’s up on the desk
by the bed in your room
try not to fret
try not to worry
But if he comes home at all
it won’t be any time soon.

We walked for miles on the back roads
in the days that he stayed here
I was ready to listen
he didn’t have much to say
we’d climb the high hill
by the stones in the church yard
look down on the white caps
as they raced cross the Bay

and the one thing he said
as we looked at the water
he said, “I might make young bones
on the old Kabul road,
but one thing I know
if I’m not there beside them
some other poor soldier’s
got to carry my load.”

“Time has its way
and it wears you down slowly,
It wears you down slowly
like water on stone.
But in that last reckoning
the best you can hope for
the best you can hope for
is to not die alone.”

The morning sky is like turquoise
like lapis the shadows
as he watches and waits
in the dry Afghan Hills
The sun rises quickly
a high voice is calling
it calls on the faithful to do what God wills.

and the young girls line up
silent and watchful
silent and watchful,
the soldiers “stand to”.
and the radio crackles
the order is given
the convoy moves forward
down the road to the school.

As for me I’ve no answers
I have only questions
maybe tomorrow will tell us
what yesterday meant
but as for our boy
what time he is given
what time he is given
he might count it well spent.

back to top

5. Shadows on the Water
for Bill Morrissey…

When you get there, and I know you’ll go.
just a couple of things you’ll need to know
they got a big old gate
but that’s just for show.
They been waiting on you forever.

there’s a house beneath some trees.
there’s a good old car, still starts with ease.
pull down the visor
you’ll find the keys
anytime you need to go.

There’s a split cane rod, with 2 pound test
there’s an old felt hat you like the best.
and there’s a book of flies
in a canvas vest
in the hallway by the door.

And there’s a river, deep and cool
lots of shade, and sheltered pools.
those damned trout
still make you look a fool
there’s just so much even God can do.

Lots of shows to do in the little towns
The good people come from miles around
they got some genius up there
does the sound
and they always pay in cash

brand new strings on the old guitar
there’s a dark eyed girl sitting at the bar
and that charm of yours
might get you far
or you could just win her with that sweet smile.

So when you get there, say hello for me
there’s music and there’s books and there’s poetry
lots of friends
for you to see
tell them all hello.

the river flows by deep and fast
clouds fill the sky…they don’t last
I’ve lost track of all the souls who’ve passed
like shadows on the water
like shadows on the water.

back to top

6. Sleeping
for my father

Shouldn’t you be sleeping?
It’s long past time to seek your bed
Ah, your face it looks so tired,
your eyes are heavy
lay back a while and rest your weary head.
Shouldn’t you be sleeping?

Shouldn’t you be sleeping?
The last of the wine is almost gone
and the moon’s an empty glass above the harbour
and the world is turning to another dawn

Shouldn’t you be sleeping?
The stars will all be fading in a while
and the wind is moving soft across the water
Close your eyes and rest,
You’ve done your mile.

Shouldn’t you be sleeping?
there’s still so much we didn’t say.
but the candle’s guttered by a brightening window
time to blow it out and slip away.
Shouldn’t you be sleeping?

back to top

7. My Old Man Ewan MacColl
I first heard this song from Gerry Hallom maybe 30 odd years ago.The guitar arrangement is a vague approximation of what I remember of his.
My old man was a good old man,
skilled in the moulding trade
In the stinking heat of the iron foundry,
my old man was made.
Down on his knees in the moulding sand,
he wore his trade like a company brand.
One of Cyclop’s smoky band,
yes that was my old man.

My old man wasn’t really old
T’was just that I was young
and anyone over 12 years old was halfway to the tomb.
He was loyal to his workmates all his life
He gave his pay packet to his wife.
had a few jars on a Saturday night
yes that was my old man.

My old man was a Union man.
fought hard all his days.
he understood the system and was wise to the bosses’ ways.
he said if you want what’s yours by right
you’ll have to struggle with all your might
they’ll rob you blind if you don’t fight.
Yes, that was my old man.

My old man was a proud old man
at home on the foundry floor.
Until the day they paid him off and showed him to the door.
They gave him his cards , said “Things are slack,
We’ve got a machine now that’s learned the knack
of doing your job, so don’t come back.”
the end of my old man.

My old man was 51.
and what was he to do?
a craftsman moulder on the dole in 1932.
He felt he’d given all he could give,
so he did what thousands of others did.
He abandoned hope and the will to live
it killed him
my old man.

My old man is dead and gone.
Now I am your old man.
my advice to you my child
is to fight back while you can.
Beware of the man with the silicon chip.
hold onto your job with a good firm grip.
’cause if you don’t you’ll have had your chips
the same as my old man.

back to top

8. Summer’s End (1)

This night is still and quiet
summer’s almost past.
there’s a cricket with a socket wrench
in the dry and dusty grass.
above our heads a breath of wind
is rattling the leaves.
The last swallows of the season
have fled their nests beneath the eaves.

And you and I we sit together
in the dark beneath the trees.
I move my chair close to yours
as we sit and drink our tea.
We talk together in the quiet
and try to reckon up the cost.
and bind our wounds and count the scars
from all that we have lost.

And the days they hurry by.
running on together.
until you can’t recall a time before sorrow touched your heart
and left its mark on you forever.

So maybe somewhere precious rain falls
on a parched and barren earth
Maybe somewhere in a house filled with love
there’s a mother giving birth.
A small child’s fever breaks.
parents breathe a prayer and sigh.
And a soul somewhere in deep despair
lifts his eyes unto the sky.
And I look the heavens
and I stare into the black
and I laugh at those who say God shapes the load to fit your back.
There’s no Golden Throne beyond the Veil.
No angel choirs above.
and Hell is just outliving everyone you’ve known and loved.
and all of those who we have loved and lost from near and far
they’ve left us here to carry on
beneath cold indifferent stars.

And the days they hurry by…

and so for now we muddle on.
I guess that is the way.
and try to look a little further down the road
and not just day to day
I know you’ll look out for me
as I look out for you.
and we’ll live in hope for better days.
It’s the best that we can do.

and the days…

back to top

9. It’s a Gift

It’s a gift to me, this waking in the hour before the sunrise
it’s a gift to me, the light that gilds the waves across the bay
it’s a gift to me, the silence of this old house in the morning.
I watch the sky and weather, and begin another day.

It’s a gift to me, these raucous gulls that wheel outside my window
I watch the sun climb higher and set to fire the morning dew.
small boats outside my window reflect their colours to the water
like gaudy gypsy caravans, bright yellow, red and blue.

There’s a young boy tossing pebbles in a tide pool in the Channel
There’s an old dog on an errand on his way towards the town
I hear the voices of my neighbours. I see a sail out past the island.
sunlight through the gulls’ bright wings, slowly circling down.

As a boy I walked these broken roads from sunrise until evening.
I knew each stone and tree that final mile up to the hill
Starlight through the clouds, dark trees on the horizon.
the smell of rain and wood smoke…I remember, oh so well.

Now I walk out past the iron bridge that reaches to the island
past brightly painted houses scattered down along the shore
I build my fire, I boil my tea, I stare out at the water
once again I am that little kid I was long years before.

There’s a heron in the shadows staring at his own reflection
there’s a brown trout in the shallows in the lake behind the hill
he waits, wide-eyed and silent, in the cold and tea-brown water.
he’s like my heart before I knew you love, cold and dark and still

It’s a gift to me, the sunset burning down the far horizon
to the East the fat moon rises past the steeple on the hill
and this day that I’ve been given, to walk and watch and wonder.
Night falls upon the little town. The stars are bright and chill.

Its a gift to me, the stars that circle slowly ’round the roof tops
I turn my face to skyward to breathe in their ancient light
my long years hover ’round me as I stand there in the darkness
the night wind rises up, stirs the grass and whispers past me in the night.

It’s a gift to me, the sun and stone and sky and wind and water.
This harbour town that opens to a sea of endless blue.
and as the sky grows bright above me, my cup is running over.
and everything I have before me love, I’d give it all to you.

back to top

10. Did Trouble Me
Susan Werner

When I closed my eyes and would not see
My lord did trouble me
when I let things stand that should not be
My lord did trouble me
When I held my head too high too proud
My lord did trouble me
When I raised my voice too little too loud
My lord did trouble me.

Did trouble me
with a word or a sign
with a ringing of a bell in the back of my mind
did trouble me
and stir my soul
to make me human make me whole.

When I slept too long, slept too deep
My lord…
put a worrisome vision into my sleep
my lord…

When I held myself away and apart
my lord….
and the tears of my brother didn’t stir my heart
my lord…

Did trouble me with a word, a sign
with the ringing of a bell in the back of my mind
did trouble me
and stir my soul
to make me human make me whole

This I’ve learned, this I know
my lord will trouble me
whatever I do, wherever I go
my lord will trouble me
in the whisper of the wind, in the ringing of a song
my lord will …
Keep me on the path where I belong.
my lord will….

11. Summer’s End (2)
(I bought an old wooden boat.)

Slim birches on the river bank
all dressed in white and gold
the wind is from the north west now.
the day is turning cold.
this old boat’s the Ghost of Summers Past.
the river smells like rain.
We’ll turn once more now to the west .
into the sun again.

the days are growing shorter
nights are closing in.
but surely as the winter comes
spring follows once again
the sun will green the tender leaves
swallows grace the sky
but for now we watch the shadows fall
hear the wild geese cry.

And it seems hard times have found us, love.
hard times we couldn’t shake.
brought us care and stripped us bare.
left us trembling in their wake
but I can see the light beyond these hills
as the sun slips to the south
where a warm bed waits, and fire light
and the sweetness of your mouth

And if I have a wish for you
it’s not for wealth or treasure
I wish for you the sun and wind
rain in perfect measure
sunlight on clean water
clear starlight in your eyes
and my loving arms to hold you
in the morning.

back to top

12. Sailor’s Rest
Stan Rogers
With my brother’s music you pretty much always knew where you were and what was happening. He told beautiful clear stories and the message was always right there in front of you. I used to nag him occasionally to write something a bit more “oblique”, where the listener had to bring their own experience to the song and find the meaning. He wrote this in Minneapolis when we were playing the Prairie Home Companion show, and being billeted with a lovely couple who owned a house called “Sailor’s Rest”. Our paternal grandfather (Stan’s namesake) was around that time living out his last days at Camp Hill Veteran’s Hospital in Halifax NS. I have no doubt he is in this song. The song itself got played just once at its unveiling, and never entered the band repertoire, although at the time I thought (as I do now) that it was breath-taking. The only extant recording of it is from a show we did in Halifax where Stan brought it out as a solo encore. Unfortunately, someone had made the tactical error of leaving a bottle of Glenlivet in the dressing room and Stan decided to perform it in a sort of quasi-reggae style. This version is closer to the original as I recall it, and truer ( I hope ) to the song.

It’s acrimony down in the card room
with winning hands thrown on the baise
forgotten cards wait at the end of debate
on the good old days
Captains and mates getting testy
with memories not of the best
tempers are rising
down at the Sailor’s Rest.

Blue eyes in wrinkled Morocco
still search the horizons for squalls
Zeros in the skies of the watch keepers’ eyes
and the pawn shop balls
Spice in the wind off of Java
and the bars in Papeete were best
This deck is too steady
down at the Sailor’s Rest.

Oh…how they talk of the day they arrived.
when after the years, all the storms and the fears
still very much alive
Oh…how their lives were spilled out on the floor
from the battered old sea bags, the journals and logs
and the keepsakes locked in the chest
that were stowed in the attic
down at the Sailor’s Rest.

No rail at the mess room table
and you’re dead if you spit on the floor.
No grog allowed, no singing too loud
no locks on the doors.
But there’s always a fire in the card room
and the tucker is always the best
and they’ll end this together
down at the Sailor’s Rest.

Oh…how they talk of the day they arrived.
when after the years all the storms and the tears,
still very much alive
Oh…how their lives were spilled out on the floor
from the battered old sea bags, the journals and logs,
and the keepsakes locked in the chest
which were sold at the auction
down at the Sailor’s rest.

It’s acrimony down in the card room…

back to top

13. A Fireside Chat
I wrote this as a joke one morning. It got a bit out of hand, as jokes tend to do, and more verses arrived,(and departed) depending on who was annoying me on any given day. After I performed it one night outside of Baltimore, a gentleman introduced me to a wonderful BBC Radio series called Old Harry’s Game. It is set in Hell, and is wildly funny. Well worth looking for. See as well, C. S. Lewis’ “The Screwtape letters.”

You might have noticed the road was real bad
It’s not really paved with good intentions
we just flattened out some Wall Street guys
and those boys with their inventions,
like Twitter and Facebook, man, you people love to talk
but let me make it clear we’re glad you’re here.
let’s you and me take a little walk…

Step into the elevator, that’s right
there’s just one button, DOWN.
takes about a million years to get there
it’s along way underground
meet Michael Bolton and Kenny G.,
they’ll be playing just for you
all of your favourites, like “Little Drummer Boy”
yeah, and that song from ” Titanic ” too.

So welcome to Hell
I got news for you pal, you’re dead.
We prepared a special place for you
the coals are nice and red
we’ve been watching you your whole life
we’ve heard every little word you’ve said
and I hope you’re feeling rested
You got some busy days ahead.

Hot enough for ya?
I love that joke, we use that all the time.
here’s where we keep all the insurance guys
with their lawyers and the mimes
We got a lot of you self righteous folk singers down here
we got you for a song
and we’ve got all those religious fundamentalists
turns out they were all fundamentally wrong…

Hey Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher, how you doing?
good to see ya.
Here’s those tickets that we promised you.
season’s pass to Mama Mia
We got singalong Sound of Music down here
Celine Dion sings the lead
It’s a rap version, I’m not kidding man.
If that don’t make your ears bleed.

and CNN is on here all the time
FOX news is 24/7
We got Glenn Beck and Anne Coulter down here
they didn’t want ’em up in Heaven
and Rush Limbaugh teaches nude yoga
ain’t that boy a sight?
and we send our laundry to Mitt Romney
He’s trying to keep the world nice and …white.

And we got al those Al Queda bombers,
my god , they’re all crazier than squirrels.
they all got their promised 72 virgins though
(none of them are girls)
and Lorreena Bobbitt is our surgeon general
she volunteers here at night.
She takes care of all those murder/ suicide husbands and boyfriends
who never could quite seem to get the order right.

So welcome to Hell.
You coulda been a better guy
coulda loved your neighbour, maybe done some good.
You never so much as tried.
No point trying to bitch to me.
I only work here son.
and you seem to feel you’re being punished.
and you are.
We’re just trying to make it fun.

Oh look! there goes President Sarah Palin!
She’s a Maverick…she’s a doll.
I hear she’s single these days …here’s her card
she wants you to call.
She’s written over a hundred books now
I’m not kidding man, it’s true.
They’re required reading down Here by the way.
Yeah, and you gotta memorize them too.

Oh…look Stephen Harper in a Speedo bathing suit.
that’s the kind of sight you only see in Hell.
Stephen, you’re lowering the tone down here.
That thing don’t fit you very well.
Spandex is a privilege, it’s not a right.
I thought by now you knew.
and besides you know, I don’t mean to get personal here
but is it cold in here, or is THAT just you?

Well, It’s about time you met the Big Guy
got yourself settled in and such
It the thing that makes him special
It’s the extra little personal touch
It’s quite literally a Fireside Chat
He has it with all of you trainees.
There He is ….Satan…Master of Flesh…Lord of the Abyss…the Great Destroyer…
no….that’s really Him
He just likes to pretend he’s Dick Cheney

So welcome to Hell
You’re not gonna like it here
get your ass up on that barbeque
we only serve American beer down Here
you coulda lived a better life, maybe not been such a jerk
but you made your bed, quit your whining
Here’s your banjo.
Get to work

back to top