I often sing the lyric below when I am engaged with acoustic guitar, to entertain, more or less, the panting hoi polloi. Here’s hoping it appeals to yous as well.
Hello
by Job Conger
(introduction) Abraham Lincoln, Vachel Lindsay,
Terry Tippet, Joel Fulgenzi –
Each one with honored name,
Destined for distant fame.
When I take my guitar in hand
To sing of good men walking Freedom’s land
I hope you all can see
I’m glad none of that. applies to me.
. . . . . segway diminuendo . . . . .
I don’t want to take my songs to Nashville –
That’s one thing I won’t do.
I don’t want to sing in New York City –
I want to sing to you.
Just let me croon on the hallowed ground
Of Springfield-town in the night.
And let me stroll, unarmed down 14th Street
Cursing all the urban blight (whatta sight; right?)
I don’t want to seek my fame and fortune;
I want to seek your heart.
And I will cherish sweet memories
When all of us must part.
You say I could find wealth and fame –
That’s all for foolish pride –
But if I can sing to your eyes,
If I can sing to your heart,
While under Springfield skies
I’m satisfied.
The aroma of acorns in Washington Park
After a summer storm
The pontificating prattle of our aldermen
Behaving simply true to form.
The confident stride of yuppies in rut
Promenading on the Old Capitol Square.
Finding excuses to get out of town
During the Illinois State Fair.
Autumn leaves’ kaleidoscope against deep blue above
As harvested fields promise cozy Novembers
Crackling fireplaces spark sweet reveries
With wistful surrender to dying embers.
The booms of M-80s — or are they just hand guns? –
Through the month of our July the Fourth
Lead to high symphonies of Canadian geese
As they flee from the Great White North
I don’t want to sleep in a sterile hotel;
I want to sleep at home.
And if you’ll cooperate by putting me to work,
I’ll never roam.
You tell me Springfield is not a place to grow;
It’s only a place to hide,
But if I can sing to your eyes,
If I can sing to your heart
While under Springfield skies
I’m satisfied.
