What Went Wrong?

What went wrong

With this song

It started so well

And then went to hell

I thought I could be

The opening key

But then I had to pee…

“Oh, Miles,” Harold the ghost said, I just can’t this song-writing thing down.

Miles, swishing his furry tail back and forth, harrumphed.

“Harold, song writing is poetry put to music. You claim you’re a poet, right? Well, you are the word master, and I’ll help you put it to music.” 

Miles rolled his eyes, exasperated. Oh well, he thought, at least Harold wasn’t pushing him to get his wretched poems published anymore.  All in all, his plan, to get Harold to materialize long enough to play his banjo, was having a positive affect on Harold’s mental health. Well, in this case, his lack of mental health.

Miles loved music. A percussionist himself, he was the epitome of an Irish drum. He used his back feet on different surfaces, and his pride and glory, his magnificent furry black tail, added a new dimension to percussion. And when Harold wasn’t pouting, moaning, or feeling sorry for himself, when he forgot that he was in fact, a ghost, he would materialize, pick up the old banjo Fiddlin’ Red had painstakingly repaired, and play sweet, vibrant music. Miles, of course, backed him up on his new bodhran.