Well it happened. The dichotomy. What I call the "bi-FAWM-cation." I try to write something that isn't super heavy, and I end up overshooting and posting something that's frivolous and semi-unhinged.

I think I owe a little of the character to my roughly one-million listens to @yourhumphrey 's "The Death of Lewis Olessa" (https://fawm.org/songs/319343). But I fail to match his guitar chops, vocals, or ability to not sing about stupid shit.

The timing is also a bit all over the place. Please forgive the rough demo.

So here's a bunch of untethered musing, queries, hypotheticals, and rants. I actually love pancakes!

I tried to record it in one take, but hah. Too many words. This is several takes spliced together. Recorded using my Tascam DR40x (love that thing).

#acoustic #onemic #singersongwriter #irreverant

Can we talk about the bugs? Leggin' it through their little lives I've always found myself impressed They've managed to survive

First the dinosaurs, then meteors, Now clumsy men in boots And the magnifying glass you gave To the kids next door to you

They're standing by on two-by-threes, happy in their rugs Can we talk about bugs?

The thing about chairs They're overbuilt it seems to me You've two legs to hold ya, three to balance, And a fourth is just to cause a scene

And to wobble - rock and hobble Got you buying stock in shim They lay in wait to savage Your toe just on a whim

All for the sake of elevation for your derriere I found it rather pressing And find myself addressing The engineering mess That is a chair…

We pretend that it's all in order Nothing here to see I contend that God may have been a hoarder Or tripping hard on LSD And now we're all just exhibits In this strange menagerie Those creeping insects and the over-legged chairs and you and me

Hotcakes, here's my hot take It's a stupid name for stupid crepes Pancakes, griddle, flapjack - a riddle for ya' What is there to separate?

Buttered batter biscuits, better To call it what it is A puddle turned to breakfast Like you're some sort of culinary whiz

Do you fancy you're the chef du jour or do feel like you're a fake Just let me take this bite And I'll fbbrgh grrb fpppp fht Ibts a lbttl bdy Gbt srp sdbdng bbdyg I tbkb bck allb I saibd Hm, that's good. Pancakes

Do you think that Woolly mammoths Ever needed a shampoo? And were they so inclined to snuggle up With cuddly caveman-you?

Did they shuffle, across the carpet To see how many volts they could obtain? And did they suddenly become wooly mediums When caught out in the rain?

Were they awful houseguests who sent the vacuum into a panic Did they ever stink and What did the barber think And if you gave it ample drink Could you dye one vivid pink And ride it round the rink And did they float or did they sink If you took them to the shrink Would they make good pets, ya think? Oh woolly mammoths?

We pretend that it's all in order Nothing here to see I contend that God may have been a hoarder Or tripping hard on LSD And now we're all just exhibits In this strange menagerie Those bugs and mammoths and the chairs and all their pancakes And you and me

French bulldogs That's all I need to say Like fallout from a high speed crash 'tween potatoes and toad DNA

Like a platypus… But less normal And it's a mystery to me Which end is which, cause they both resemble the ass-end of the ugly tree

Evolution says "don't blame me" after one apraising glance I'm talking 'bout the bulldogs a la France

We pretend that it's all in order Nothing here to see I contend that God may have been a hoarder High as balls on LSD Now we're stuck in this box With stranger company Just you and me And the sentient potaters And the flippin' flapjack hater The pachyderm packing hairplugs And the chairs all feeling smug And what I'm really trying to tell you Is I really have a thing about bugs