My Cardboard Balcony

The Prancing, Dancing, Singing by Belinda Roddie The prancing, dancing, singing kitty cats could not carry a tune in a bucket, but still they carried on, their furry spats on full display as they mewed a duet. Then, with a tap and scurry, they progressed to a ballet, their tiny pirouettes goofy, yet adorable. My wife dressed the kittens up in ties and little hats so we could all put on a proper show. But alas, when the curtain rose, the damn felines were off frolicking down the road, seeking out a chorus and a sharp dram of nip mixed with warm milk - the little brats. They could never be celebrity cats!

Singer, songwriter, yet lonely in a studio, the guitar strings growing cold, even though it's almost ninety degrees in the space. You're sweating so badly that your fingers slip and slide across the fretboard, creating a miniature waterfall all the way down the body of your pristine acoustic Fender. Suddenly, you forget the words; you forget the melody. And all you can do is shrivel away on a minor chord.