There are only so many songs that you can write
with choruses that include the way a pair of jeans
fit a girl who also happens to be wearing cowboy boots.
And I am truly beginning to question the sincerity
of the genre of songs that begin with being a child,
and end on the death-bed
(with a bittersweet bridge about how quickly time passes),
all glued together with a chorus that the child’s Daddy
told him, which he repeated to his future wife,
which their future son repeats to him now
as he lies, motionless,
breathing his last breath.
When I say that some songs should be illegal,
I don’t really mean that I want the government involved.
I know I can turn off the radio.
But they always find me–in supermarkets
and gas stations, the melodies that float out over parking lots
and drill themselves straight into your brain.
I can’t help but listen, because I like stories
and they suck me in.
I admit it.
Is that what you wanted me to say?