Bottled By A Bottle
(Do you like it straight?)
They’ve been bottled by a bottle, are often seen plastered, smashed, sloshed — not tipsy,
But hopelessly intoxicated, drunk, blotto — having boozed themselves silly.
And apparently proud of their stupidity; pub crawling repeatedly,
Throwing up on the street, abusing passersby — or later, wife and family.
Yes, bottled by a bottle, a liquid that ravages, shatters, befuddles,
A substance that has them uttering profanities, leaving smelly puddles.
A drug that strips them of dignity, and has them acting abominably,
A brew that has women degrading themselves, and men acting far from manly.
Once imbibed, it beclouds their judgment, hence how they end up acting like they do,
And how they become addicted, hooked, soon craving this unnecessary brew.
And to make matters worse, some drive under the influence — would be assassins,
Who also rob others of hospital beds, needed healthcare and medicines.
Yes, bottled by a bottle, which effectively ends up bottling others too,
They being, those on the receiving end of the carouser’s duplicitous brew.
One that’s often a lethal cocktail, a health robbing mind-bending combination,
A bubbling cauldron, one warranting a skull and crossbones classification.
Seems many can’t do without their beloved booze; even its health properties tout,
Whilst conveniently leaving its bad properties and negative side out.
“It’s fine in moderation,” the deceived say, but how many drink moderately,
And what’s their idea of moderate, given that one drink alone acts destructively?
Personally, I wouldn’t touch the stuff, nor let others somehow pressure me,
For one’s grey matter is far too precious to be pickled so injuriously.
But who needs it anyway, given there’re other drinks, and healthier drinks around,
And given that far more constructive ways of enjoying oneself can be found?
Be it beer, wine or spirits, they all leave one worse off, harmed — and others too,
For alcohol’s presence affects the innocent — criminally so, in my view.
Thus, I wouldn’t encourage any kids to drink, (youth often upping the throttle),
Lest they, or someone else in their befuddled way, gets bottled by a bottle.
Yes, its time folk got over their love affair with the bottle.
By Lance Landall
According
to the Cancer Council (Australia), alcohol is a major carcinogen
and there is therefore no safe level of consumption; such causing
cancer of the mouth, pharynx, larynx, oesophagus, liver, bowel and
breast.
Another Gig
Another day, another night, another gig, for I'm so hooked on the fame and adulation,
And hence why there is always another venue, hotel, city, or even another nation.
Yes, I’m addicted to the buzz, thrilled by the attention — and thus am caught on a merry-go-round,
As even my name isn't my own — oh well, that’s show bizz, they say — and one reason why I'm booze bound.
Yes, the worse for drink, for that is how I deal with the shallowness and artificiality,
And given that I don’t know who I am anymore, but seemingly just who they want me to be.
It’s pretty much just a game, some momentary fame, for one’s only as popular as the day,
And every day’s a roller coaster — up and down, up and down — press start, press stop, and now press replay.
Oh, how I love those highs, but not those lows, for in-between each gig, it’s just back to being plain old me,
Which means I have more time to think, more time to drown demons in drink, hence why booze comes naturally.
Yes, such is just part of the scene, and becoming more routine, and how I deal with the fantasy,
For it all seems just like an act, something that's more bound to subtract, and tear the soul right out of me.
And thus it could be the death of me, for it's stolen my identity, and simply for their sake,
For I always have to please, forget about my unease, as well as mind those ones who're on the make.
And hence why I’m wanting out, just can’t grasp what it’s all about, and yet, here I am so hooked on such,
For I’ve been beguiled and enslaved by an ego stroking siren — yes, each gig's got me in its clutch.
Thus, another gig, another fix, for the rush I get from such is so much like a drug to me,
And hence those withdrawal symptoms — that is, when the crowd's gone home and we've packed up — and I'm alone with me.
And out comes that bottle again, another drug, one that seems to have just as big a grip on me,
For gigs and drugs seem to go together — and I, can't live without the limelight being focused on me.
Yes, another gig....
By Lance Landall
The Stage
It seems as if everyone wants their moment of fame, hence that somewhat obscene rush for the stage,
Where with an adoring and applauding audience they can egotistically engage.
And as to what drives such, who knows? — though I suspect a number of things, and all propelled by one,
That being, a desire to be some focus of attention, or famous, when all is said and done.
When it’s all boiled down, such is an introspective desire — narcissism, possibly,
For it’s tied in with personal glory, hence the shame oft associated with such, sadly.
That is, that mad scramble over the top of others, the tantrums and tears, accusations too,
All part and parcel of this territory that sees so many who make it going askew.
Though many may claim differently — the truth is as I’ve stated — despite any exception,
For how many would bother if they didn’t get that adoring and applauding reception?
And hence why even in churches these days, applause is desired far more than a humble “Amen,”
Not that I’m condoning entertainment in churches, for there would go that self focus again.
And that’s what it’s all about — believe me — for it’s simply delusional thinking otherwise,
And why in regards to the stage, so many seek and dream of such, and over such fantasise.
After all, it’s an adrenalin rush, one that has folk seeking more, until they’re not desired,
And then what? — given that their everything was built on that buzz, on being applauded and admired.
Yes, there’s nothing more shallow and artificial than the limelight, and more delusional too,
Given that it fills one with pride, an overrated sense of importance, one that isn’t due.
For often those in the limelight are corrupted by its seductiveness, and thus less worthy,
And even a great power for evil, given they so often influence negatively.
When all is said and done, the stage is all about “Me,” the selling of humans commercially,
And those who fall at the feet of such idols, fall victim to the image maker’s artistry.
For were those on stage found amongst those on the street, they’d hardly be noticed perhaps, even ignored,
Given they’re no better or different to you and I, and often as seriously flawed.
Yes, so many people — most, possibly — are blinded by the distorted rays that bathe the stage,
And seeming just as seduced by its razzle-dazzle, and would find it hard to disengage.
Hence those who perform and those who follow, and those who dream, wishing that it was them on that stage,
Given that that “Me” inside of most would rather not be in the seats, but up front, I would wage.
By Lance Landall
The Aging Singer
Yes, the aging singer, his beguiling voice no longer able — at least, not like it could before,
Yet, he still doing the circuit, running on past popularity, and years of built up rapport.
Now no longer able to hold those notes as long, nor quite reach the highs and lows that are still required,
But so loath to leave the limelight, the adulation, even though age and health have cruelly conspired.
Yes, an aging lion, his breathing laboured, his movements less nimble, and his presence less commanding,
Yet, so reluctant to relinquish his throne, and steady ticket sales showing that he can still sing.
But not like before, and such not unnoticed too, thus time now his enemy rather than his friend,
And he a crooner, a singer of past romantic ballads, now well and truly bucking the trend.
Yes, the aging singer, so wanting to soar, but his wings somewhat clipped, the lights no longer as kind,
Thus, what once delighted, now less a reality, and each passing year falling further behind.
And perhaps he has lingered too long, his departure thus overdue, and his audience too kind,
But lost in their memories of days gone by, they’re loath to see him go, and seemingly do not mind.
Yes, the aging lion, singer, younger ones casting their shadow, but not quite a shadow like his one,
For despite their popularity, he’s in a league of his own, and despite that red setting sun.
And in the hearts and minds of those who adore his voice, he will continue to remain on his throne,
For even after his departure, and via their own home, they’ll still savour that lilting baritone.
By Lance Landall
Thinking Of Karen Carpenter
It’s always a tragedy when someone’s life is cut short, and seemingly even more so when they have a gift,
And here, I’m referring to an exceptional voice, a voice that has the ability to move, touch and lift.
And Karen’s voice certainly did move, touch and lift, and now this Earth is the less for her gifted ability,
One which conveyed an unaffected and natural beauty so rarely seen today, given its quality.
Yes, so many folk can sing — indeed us all, one might say — but truly gifted singers are more a rarity,
For though there are in fact many good singers, few singers come under what one might well describe as heavenly.
And it’s just the same with musicians, for though many can play exceedingly well, not so many have the touch,
And as a consequence, their playing and ability fails to move people, or to affect them quite as much.
And that ability to move and touch was where Karen’s voice excelled, and why her death seems a far greater loss,
And the reason that I say “seems” is, because everyone’s life is just as precious as hers, and as much a loss.
However, there are those who leave behind something extra special — that is, in the way of their ability,
And as far as I’m concerned, Karen certainly did just that, affecting many very emotionally.
Yes, it’s always so tragic when someone’s life is cut short — and as in her case, the world all the less for that voice,
And here, I’m talking solely of her voice — not all of which she sang — for songs are very much a personal choice.
But suffice to say, that Karen touched the lives of so many, and hence why we should always treat other folk well,
Lest their life be cut short, and their gift to us be lost, for what’s going on in someone’s life, we can’t always tell.
By Lance Landall
Karen
Carpenter died in 1983 at the age of 32, her death being due to an
eating disorder — anorexia nervosa. The song "Now" which was recorded
in April 1982, was the last song that Karen Carpenter recorded.
Lesser Mortals
Take an everyday boy or girl that one passes in the street, and that one hardly gives a second thought to,
And build an image around their ability to sing or play, and soon they’re no longer like me and you.
But rather, someone seemingly out of reach, though desired and sought, even cried over, ridiculously,
Which has me scratching my head, for it’s simply an orchestrated illusion — a game, quite frankly.
Many who become idols, (singers or musicians), aren’t near as good as many who are still on the street;
That is, their talent and star quality is surpassed by many who haven’t made it, whom we daily greet.
And yet, no one bats an eyelid whilst passing these seemingly lesser mortals destined for obscurity,
Who, had they made it too, would’ve received the same generated attention, and more deservingly.
Yes, so many who make it aren’t that great at all, but oft beating those more talented come competitions,
Which aside from being very unfair, and having me scratching my head again, leaves one nursing suspicions.
It’s clear that certain judges, (and members of the public), aren’t up to the job, hence those performances we see,
That come from those who’re hardly deserving of the limelight, or less deserving, whatever the case may be.
Then there’re those inflated egos; those ways not worth emulating that come from many of the favoured few,
Who, given their sad influence, would’ve been better left on the street, unlike others waiting in the queue.
Others who on top of their greater talent, would’ve been better role models, and less affected by fame,
And nor professing to be Christians whilst behaving in a way that’s contrary — such only to their shame.
By Lance Landall
Rock And Beauty — Opposites, To Me
Many years ago now, I had an interesting conversation or two with a female psychologist,
She being somewhere in her twenties, I guess, very attractive, and with a really lovely personality.
Her attractiveness and charming personality really stood out, and it was such that truly flummoxed me,
For she told me that she was very much into serious rock music — you know, loud, harsh, anti and angry.
Well, that’s as I remember it, for as I mentioned, it was many years ago, though it’s remained in my mind,
And still niggles me, for such beauty and pleasantry, and rock music, together I didn’t expect to find.
How could such be, I’ve often asked myself, especially when someone has such a pleasant personality,
Or perhaps I’m confusing such with one’s character — such being far more important than one’s personality.
Any music bias aside, or personal preference, rock music is hardly synonymous with beauty,
Nor with character beauty, or that which is orderly, harmonious, uplifting, beneficial or lovely.
For how can it be, given its mind numbing, body assaulting beat, and those screeching, howling, whining guitar sounds,
Which, rather than being restorative, simply create an unhealthy state — let alone rock’s lack of moral grounds.
That is, those debasing, destructive, negative lyrics — along with all that rock’s associated with too,
Let alone that sound, all of which just doesn’t sit with a sound mind, nor with psychologists who mental health pursue.
And personally, nor with a very attractive young woman with a really lovely personality,
For that which is in one’s mind, (one’s character), and desired, should surely be just as beautiful and lovely.
Well, so it seems to me, for if one's only looks and personality, that's just window dressing, arguably.
By Lance Landall
Sullied Talent And Misused Blessings
Handsome and gifted vocally, he struts the stage with his shirt open to the waistline, and with sweat soaked body,
At times dodging panties that his female fans throw, their desires clear and public, their actions vulgar, arguably.
And a few who’re plucked from the mass, are treated to a raunchy encounter, one that they’ll continue to savour,
That is, as it replays in their mind well after the event, they still swooning, dreaming, idolizing — in awe.
Well, I don’t know about you, but such doesn’t impress me, for I would rather see folk retain their dignity,
Something that is lost when both singer and admirer act so ridiculously, let alone so shamefully.
For where’s the restraint? Is he a singer or a bawdy act? — his manner suggestive, his shirt yawning, chest bare,
And no doubt some of those women are married women, even mothers, who, lost in desire, seemingly don’t care —
Yes, their thoughts just on that singer, who, as a memento, passes back, (laden with sweat), what he chooses to share.
No, that’s hardly my kind of singer, regardless of his voice or the melody, for such is far from manly,
Something that is more akin to what goes on behind some school shed, where some boys and girls act just as shamefully.
And amidst such childish expression, there is often suggestive banter, and lyrics equally unworthy,
And he, a married man as well, who, I venture to say, later would be acting even more unfaithfully.
And to think that he’s admired — for who on Earth would admire such crassness? — surely only those who’re equally as loose,
And it seems clear that these women falling at the feet of their god are women that he could easily seduce.
A mere man, but a handsome man, one who though gifted vocally too, simply lets it all down via his antics,
And
thus sullies his talent, misuses his blessings — and others
too? — who, from such titillation get night-out kicks.
By Lance Landall
The Comedian
Yes, he’s very funny, the gags coming thick and fast, and there is that way of his — and oh, how they all laugh,
But is he really such a comical guy, and could it be a case of, “If only people knew the half?”
But then again, they could hardly be expected to know, and aren’t they just there for the laughs, a cheery night?
And he, having to make a living, having to work the crowd, until once again it’s time to shout, “Goodnight!”
Yes, the funny man, the jester, clown, seemingly gifted at his craft, his wit as sharp as a surgeon’s knife,
The crowd like putty in his hands, his antics turning them into rag dolls — such fooling now his way of life.
But in the quietness of his home, off comes the mask, for the funny man isn’t always laughing inside,
Given that behind the hilarity, an emotional rollercoaster and insecurity oft hide.
And aren’t we all a bit like that, or many of us, hiding behind the jocular, even waggish,
Not so confident within, hurting perhaps, lonely maybe? — yes, the truth quite another kettle of fish.
And we, feeling inadequate, so wanting to be liked, or could there be something else that’s amiss within,
And that even a desperate cry for help lies behind that jesting, that clowning, that laugh or cheeky grin?
Yes, the world is full of comedians, some working via the stage, but most, just an everyday type of clown,
Who, via the hilarious, seeks to break the boredom, draw attention, or some misery attempts to drown.
Yes, the wit coming thick and fast, and that amusing way that has folk doubled up in fits — oh, how they laugh,
But if only they knew what was so oft behind it all — yes, if only those laughing truly knew the half.
By Lance Landall
Ribald Stand-Ups
I know a good comedian when I see one, (and I love a good laugh just like anyone else), but hey,
When they succumb to crudity, foul language, and somehow taking other folk down, I’m off and on my way.
At the end of the day, a good comedian can make it without going down that sullied avenue,
One that any fool can get his laughs from, for there’re plenty who applaud such, thereby lowering themselves too.
My idea of a good time filled with lots of laughter doesn’t include smut — in other words, whatever degrades,
Which is why I leave such stand-ups to it, given that one’s presence there, such a smutty outpouring simply aids.
And besides, what goes in our mind remains there, for our minds are computer memory banks, effectively,
And also where we live mentally, and why I like keeping that place clean, for what resides there, speaks of me.
So no, no back street alley for me, alias bawdy, blue, below the belt, callous, cheap shot comedy,
Which the comedian who wishes to retain his dignity avoids just as vigilantly as me.
For why would he sell himself short, thus gaining fame from what can betray the inner man, and soil those who hear,
Who, doubled up with laughter at such crudity, the very next day and often thereafter, go and share.
Yes, I enjoy a good laugh, but I don’t like to leave feeling soiled, and hence that old expression, “Good clean fun,”
For there’s nothing more regenerating, nothing more healing for body and soul, when all is said and done.
And, let me add, it’s lovely to hear others laughing, and if it’s us who’s making them laugh, I hope all’s well,
And by that I mean, that what we are saying or doing, in another’s mind will very healthily dwell.
By Lance Landall
I'd Mind Those Lyrics
Within this world in which we live, there are clearly two forces operating, and affecting everything,
That is, either for the better or the worse, including all those songs that we listen to, or even sing.
And hence why we should pay a little more attention to the lyrics of any song, for one thing is clear:
Those lyrics are the product of either force, and therefore good reason to mind what it is we choose to hear.
Yes, so little thought is given to lyrics, which may have their basis in the occult, or a disturbed mind,
Or they may simply be the product of silly and faulty thinking that’s so typical of humankind.
And yes, they may seem quite harmless, but consider how often they can run through our mind, or us parrot them;
Words and sentiments that leave an imprint, which rather than entertaining, we would be wiser to condemn.
Or certainly should condemn, for certain sentiments can stir and fuel an unbalanced or rebellious mind,
And is it any wonder when behind such lyrics, a certain wildness and very angry beat we find.
Or a composition that excites lustful passions, be it via its rawness or its sophistication,
And thereby appealing to the lower rather than the higher, thus aiding a deterioration.
Yes, we really need to watch both, but certain lyrics being repeated in our mind, or via us vocally,
Can stain, soil, taint, or injure, for words have a power of their own, and certain sentiments especially.
Hence why I’d mind those lyrics, for repetition is often used by mind manipulators, who well know
That certain phrases oft repeated in the mind, baleful seeds can sow, or better thoughts and thinking overthrow.
By Lance Landall
The Scriptwriter
The purpose of life is to not only make the most of it, but to lose oneself in that which is worthy,
Daily saying, doing and producing what is truly beneficial, acting soundly and constructively.
Otherwise, we’re just wasting our allotted time, and even that of others, time that’s too precious to waste,
Which the scriptwriter so oft does on both accounts, polluting minds and widening the couch potatoes waist.
Yes — the scriptwriter — he or she behind those soaps and sitcoms that are so full of anything but what’s best,
Actors relaying their frivolous or debasing lines, coupled with same antics, in which stooge-like viewers invest.
They mentally manipulated, shamefully educated, and in a sense, programmed-cum-hypnotised,
Which most viewers would no doubt strongly deny, for such is often so subtle that it isn’t recognised.
Oh, the hours these scriptwriters must spend penning such, when far better things could be written, their effort our loss,
For all such does is steal precious time, assault or foul the mind, and too regularly another line cross.
Yes, inroads, breaches, trespasses that viewers even come to demand, having become bored with lesser ills,
The scriptwriter only too happy to oblige with more rubbish that one’s conscience eventually stills.
And so it goes, they misusing those precious hours far better spent on that which would far better educate,
That which would improve rather than worsen, that which would rightly inform and uplift rather than titillate.
And they thus using their talent in a way that would leave behind a positive, valuable legacy,
Their time well spent, their time on Earth a blessing, and we all the better off for their wisely used ability.
By Lance Landall
