This is the song I wrote about friends of mine who had the choice from school of going down the pit to be a minor or to work in the steelworks one used to come home covered in orange dust from the steelworks and the other came home covered in black dust from the mining.

https://youtu.be/wlwtrOk5oIk

This is a song I wrote from a poem that I scratched out a long time ago for a friend: a true Celt with a black hijab of hair, alabaster white skin, and blue husky dog eyes. A brimstone and bagpipes preacher who once baptized me in a cold stone water trough to  cleanse the sin from my soul and skin.
God bless Mon Brave!!.

​A song wrote from a poem I scratched out about the suicidal tendencies of snails that started out as jellyfish swimming freely in the wide-sea: now, I can understand why, bonded on to terra firma, they may suffer from depression or suicidal tendencies, throwing themselves to their deaths under our feet on every garden path or rain wet street

A song I wrote as a tribute to Dolly Parton, I described her as sassy, classy, and brassy. She came from poverty in Locust Ridge, Tennessee, nestled in the Great Smoky Mountains. Raised alongside 11 siblings in a single room log cabin where they slept four to a bed she worked the family's sharecropping fields, sang in her grandfather's Pentecostal church, and learned to play on her first guitar, which was bought by her uncle a music teacher, she left home at 13 years old to step onto the Nashville stage. What a woman!!. Like the queen of England this Queen of Country has been around all my life when they're gone it's though someone's stolen the star Sirius from the sky.

A MAN OR A MOUSE 
A song I penned from a poem I wrote years ago.
The ghost in our mortal machine is like a spiritual symbiotic twin, a collaborative companion that shares in our secular sin. Silently and secretively, it hides within our sapien skin, accompanying us from the womb to the tomb, and then ultimately giving evidence on the day of our doom. 

Here is a song I wrote about Mussolini after reading about his extreme OCD and control freak tendencies. He banned everything  the craziest things even getting your hair cut on a Monday, the national dish pasta, humor, music in a minor key, anyone displaying distress or depression, and any bad news! ;He banned anyone with a colloquial accents, card games, coffee, and Mickey Mouse. Unsurprisingly, he suffered dreadfully from stress and stomach ulcers drinking six liters of milk per day to try and ease the burning fire.He ate  bowls of raw garlic with lemon juice and olive oil, people said his breath smelt  like that of a Komodo dragon.
But as my mother always said he got trains to run on time, millions of people were murdered but the trains ran on time!!?.

This is a song I wrote about Caravaggio.
Orphaned at age six when the plague claimed his parents and uncle, Caravaggio grew into a master painter with a volatile, violent temper. Constantly on the run with a papal death warrant calling for his decapitation, his nomadic chaos directly influenced his art often depicting his own face in severed heads like John the Baptist and Goliath. Despite his brief, turbulent life, he revolutionized the Baroque era by bringing raw, deadly realism to biblical scenes, casting prostitutes, beggars, and street dwellers as sacred figures even using a drowned prostitute as the Virgin Mary. He lived, slept, and ultimately died by the sword.

​This is a tune I wrote after watching a woman walk into my space with a whipping boy in tow. He was spellbound by this Queen Solitaire soul caged to her slave; Looking at this poor fellow, I briefly saw my reflection a slave to love.

"This is a song I wrote after listening to a black cab taxi driver in Glasgow giving  his  perspective on the future of the world; He painted quite a pessimist picture, but then, old men do. The young have a bright,  future of open optimism, and the old a dark one of doom and  dread. Leave the future to the young and the past to the old.

This is a song I scratched out after reading about the Chelsea Hotel, a bohemian refuge in New York that for a hundred and forty two years has been the home of poets, pagans, and peasants, giving these crazy creatives shelter and sanctuary. Everyone has passed through these hallowed halls. Some died here, most notably Dylan Thomas.
 Oh, if only these soundproofed walls could speak.