Shyne and Bruce
by Dan
Please note: MP3s are only kept online for a short time, and if this entry is from more than a couple of weeks ago, the music probably won't be available to download any more.



Shyne - "Rollersong"

Young Bruce sat tear-eyed in the corner and sung
With voice sotto, his knees pulled up to his chest,
"The Good Lord's love has left me nigh wrung,"
He looked out the window, he'd forgotten the rest.

Young Bruce's parents were no longer around,
His father a victim of helium madness,
His mother disappeared without nary a sound,
So the maid cared for Bruce, with her few scraps of gladness.

Bruce prayed every night for a change to arrive,
"Take my soul, my Good Lord, do not keep me alive,
Lest you pluck me from wand'ring this dark wild wood,
Please God grant me leave of my childhood."

Youth was a failure according to Bruce,
He would much rather die than live stuck as a kid,
His soul a steam engine, his body a mere caboose,
His soul hot baked beans, his body merely the can lid.

When he wished one hot August, his prayers warm as blood,
The bark of a far dog happened right at that second,
A hope in Bruce's mind had started to bud,
He looked in the glass, God had answered when beckoned.

That night was a turbulent sleep for the young boy,
He tossed legs and arms, and turned to and fro,
Dreams of God's perfect and almighty ploy,
Swam out from his head and were beginning to show.

When Bruce woke the next morning, the dog was now near,
Barking outside the window, barking right in his ear,
His bed felt like a matchbox under his back,
The floor sagged like a hammock, the walls were starting to crack.

Bruce looked at his hands and his legs and his feet,
For they seemed the same, it was all else that was smaller,
But still the house shook with his heart's thund'ring beat,
There was no denying, he was a good twelve feet taller.

He tried to see the looking glass, his neck craned with pain,
But decided better not peek, lest he get sucked inside,
He was read this very story again and again,
By his fair mother's breath as she lay with him bedside.

But he had eaten no muffin and this wasn't a story,
He had drank no damn potion and had no crumb trail,
Bruce looked up at heaven and said,
"I wish you'd ignored me,"
And poked his head out the window, looking quite like a snail.

Bruce dragged 'round that house for the rest of his life,
He'd wanted to be 'grown-up' but could now take no children, no job, and no wife,
Orphan Bruce had reached God, which is far more than most,
Only God had felt guilty, and so tripled his dose.

[buy old Shyne]

Posted by Dan at August 31, 2010 2:47 AM

Liked this a lot. Thank you, Dan.

Posted by Bryan at September 5, 2010 9:50 PM

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about the authors
Sean Michaels is the founder of Said the Gramophone. He is a writer, critic and author of the theremin novel Us Conductors. Follow him on Twitter or reach him by email here. Click here to browse his posts.

Emma Healey writes poems and essays in Toronto. She joined Said the Gramophone in 2015. This is her website and email her here.

Jeff Miller is a Montreal-based writer and zinemaker. He is the author of Ghost Pine: All Stories True and a bunch of other stories. He joined Said the Gramophone in 2015. Say hello on Twitter or email.

Mitz Takahashi is originally from Osaka, Japan who now lives and works as a furniture designer/maker in Montreal. English is not his first language so please forgive his glamour grammar mistakes. He is trying. He joined Said the Gramophone in 2015. Reach him by email here.

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Dan Beirne wrote regularly for Said the Gramophone from August 2004 to December 2014. He is an actor and writer living in Toronto. Any claim he makes about his life on here is probably untrue. Click here to browse his posts. Email him here.

Jordan Himelfarb wrote for Said the Gramophone from November 2004 to March 2012. He lives in Toronto. He is an opinion editor at the Toronto Star. Click here to browse his posts. Email him here.
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