This song features in my new book and album, ‘The Key To A Happy Life’, which should be available very soon.

Or at:  https://soundcloud.com/mauricebaker-1

In fact, I’m not a big fan of tattoos – especially those covering large areas of flesh open to public view. Call it prudish if you like but I just think they look naff. Some may say (I don’t) they can enhance a great body – trouble is, most people don’t have a great body, especially as they get older. It’d be okay if, like hair colouring, tattoos were temporary but they are a life sentence – why inflict that on yourself?

BUTTERFLY ON HER BOTTOM

SHE HAD A BUTTERFLY ON HER BOTTOM
IT WAS BLUE AND PURPLE AND RED.
GROWING LARGER DAY BY DAY ALONG WITH HER MIDDLE-AGE SPREAD.
AND THOUGH SHE WAS NO REBEL, DREAMED ONE SUNNY DAY,
ON WINGS JUST LIKE THAT OLD TATTOO, SHE WOULD FLY AWAY.

CHORUS: FLY AWAY, FLY AWAY, FLY AWAY

SHE HAD A BUTTERFLY ON HER BOTTOM
LIKE THE BROOCH UPON HER CHEST
BUT THE BUTTERFLY ON HER BOTTOM WAS THE ONE SHE LOVED THE BEST.
ONE DAY MAYBE SHE’D BE DARING
AND HAVE DAISIES TATTOOED ON HER ARM,
AND AN ANGEL ON HER SHOULDER AS A KIND OF GOOD LUCK CHARM.

SHE HAD A BUTTERFLY ON HER BOTTOM, HIDDEN AWAY FROM SIGHT.
SHE WAS THE ONLY ONE WHO EVER SAW IT
IN THE MIRROR LATE AT NIGHT.
AND WHEN SHE WENT UNDER THE NEEDLE
AS A FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY TREAT
IT FELT LIKE LIBERATION TO HAVE AN INSECT ON HER SEAT.

SHE HAD A BUTTERFLY ON HER BOTTOM – IT COST HER FIFTY QUID
JUST LIKE THE OTHER MATCHING ONE ON HER BOYFRIEND SID
AND SOMETIMES THEY’D DANCE NAKED, BUMS STUCK UP IN THE AIR
BUTTERFLIES AKIMBO – WHAT A WIBBLY WOBBLY PAIR.

SHE HAD A BUTTERFLY ON HER BOTTOM, UNTILL HER DYING DAY
WITH A NOTE TO THE MORTICIAN – TURN ME UP THE OTHER WAY
SO WHEN LYING IN HER COFFIN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD COULD SEE
THE SECRET SHE’D BEEN HIDING AND AT LAST COULD BE SET FREE

MB © 2018

The photo is two of our three cats, Louis (ginger tom) and Sparkle (too clever for his own good) who spend their days lazing about or looking for meaty treats. If they can be bothered to leave the comfort of the fireside, radiator or armchair, they may take the night air and perhaps chase a lazy rodent. They certainly know how to twist us humans around their little paws – by looking cute and acting cuddly now and then.

Anyway, I wrote this song  for them and all other cat lover

MEOW

I don’t pay no taxes – I don’t pay no rent.                                                                                                                                         I don’t pay no mind to no lousy government.                                                                                                                                   I don’t give a whisker – live a life so free,                                                                                                                                    Only one I care about is – M-E-O-W. Little old me.

I am just so fabulous – I am just so neat,                                                                                                                                   From the tip of my furry tail down to my pretty feet.                                                                                                                   Cute as any baby, sitting on your knee,                                                                                                                                        Only one you care about is – M-E-O-W! Little old me.

Though I may stay out late at night, carousing on the town,                                                                                                   But baby you still love me when I lay my body down.                                                                                                         Though I dream of chicken or fishes from the deep blue sea                                                                                             Clotted cream that I may lick – for M-E-O-W! Little old me.

I know I am superior, like an Egyptian god,                                                                                                                                Not like other animals or some stupid old dog.                                                                                                                               I do whatever I want to – lazy as a cat can be,                                                                                                                              Cos who do you think really owns this place? M-E-O-W! Little old me.

Stefan Westmann (pictured) was a German soldier in WWI. I heard his story on BBC Radio 4 of how he was confronted by a French soldier. Both had rifles with bayonets and, given no time to think, he stabbed the Frenchman and killed him. Afterwards he suffered great remorse as he realised the man must, like him, have family and friends. He was also upset by how easily his fellow soldiers could kill, sometimes in horrific ways.

I found his story very moving and later found it on www.telegraph.co.uk. Then I wrote this song telling the story.

Two soldiers met in no-man’s land – they were from opposing sides

Though they’d not been in battle long – twas now they must decide,

Could they follow orders and stick their bayonets in?

Kill a fellow human though it was a mortal sin?

Now had those soldiers met before, maybe in peaceful times,

They could have been the best of friends, away from battle lines.

But now it was their duty to take all foreign life,

Never mind their families, their girlfriend or their wife.

Both soldiers knew what they must do and aim straight for the heart.

No time for rules of conduct – till one of them depart.

One thousand years of culture and of civilised debate,

Trampled in a muddy field – just numbers on a slate.

One soldier he was quicker there upon that day,

Maybe just a lucky break – could’ve gone the other way.

And as he pulled his bayonet out, he caught the dead man’s eye.

Oh brother pray forgive me – it was either you or I.

Two soldiers met in no-man’s land – they were from opposing sides.

Though they’d not been in battle long – twas now they must decide.

But the one who lived to tell the tale was haunted ever more,

Seems like both those soldiers were victims of the war.

There are loads of books, websites and even scientific papers on happiness – what it is exactly, how to achieve it or lose it, what activities promote it, and so on. Only today, coincidentally, the i newspaper lists the ‘real joys of summer’; 1. Going on holiday. 2. Going to the beach. 3. Eating ice cream. 4. Having a barbecue with friends and family. 5. Watching the sunset. 6. Wearing summer clothes. 7.Walking in the park. 8. Smelling freshly cut grass. 9. Reading books in the sun. 10. Laying in the sun.

This is the start of my new book which I’m currently working on and, after a review of research on ‘happiness’, goes on to tell stories of my own experiences with happiness or otherwise. However, it occurred to me this evening that the greatest cause of unhappiness (it’s always helpful to start by examining the negative) is simply a mismatch between expectation and reality. A kid brought up to expect success, wealth, ease and comfort, etc, will find life does not always conform to his/her wishes. Result; anger, frustration and disappointment. That’s not to say you should expect failure, but you should be prepared for difficulty and set-backs. Happiness comes when you can reconcile expectations versus reality, not simply when you get what you want.

Over Easter I flew over to France, meeting up with Sofie (wife) at our holiday cottage near Bordeaux. As an after-thought, just before leaving home, I grabbed a notebook in case I was inspired to write something while away. As soon as I arrived at the airport an idea hit me – a funny incident from years ago, so I pulled out the book and began scribbling and didn’t stop till I got to France. Over the ten days there, every moment not out on excursions or doing jobs around the house, I was compelled to write. At first my outpourings were just short thoughts, like snatches of poetry (which is what I thought they were) but then some semblance of an theme began to emerge – all summed up by a song I wrote a couple of years ago (see below). Its a jokey little number which doesn’t convert to the page very well but, for posterity, I include it here.

I’m still writing in the notebook and keep having loads of random ideas – mostly autobiographical and often with a musical element. We’ll see where it takes us, but I feel a CD coming on.

 THE KEY TO A HAPPY LIFE

Everybody wants to know everybody’s business,

That’s all they really want to know.

Poking their noses where they don’t belong now,

No wonder those noses grow.

No, no, no… No wonder those noses grow.

C: The key to a happy life is to mind your own business,

And don’t go messing where you don’t belong.

The key to a happy life is to mind your own business,

You know that I’m right coz I sure ain’t wrong.

Tinker, tailor, soldier and a sailor,

Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief.

They’ve all got a job to do.

You lazy whatsit – so how about you?

Down in the valley in the old back alley,

There is Mrs Muddle on Jeremy Kyle,

Ranting and a-raving and a-misbehaving,

Meanwhile her kids are all a-running wild.

Down the ages turn the history pages,

Kings and emperors went to war.

Leaving a trail of death and destruction,

They all thought they were above the law.

The next door neighbour’s having a party,

Enough damn noise to waken the dead.

Don’t they realize people are sleeping?

They need it like a bang on the head.

One, two, three, four, five – BANG!   (X2)

I was in Manchester a couple of weeks ago attending Salford Magistrates Court on a speeding rap. Yes, I’d been caught on camera once too often and was now facing a 6 month ban. Pleading ‘extreme hardship’ (their terminology) my lawyer managed to get my sentence reduced to a hefty fine – though needless to say the legal fee far outstripped the fine.

Anyway, returning across town on foot to Piccadilly Station I was surprised and saddened to see so many beggars on the street. Manchester is, after all, a reasonably affluent place and the town centre in particular crammed with designer shops, bars and restaurants so the contrast was marked.

Of course, I have no answer to the problem. No doubt many vagrants have drug and alcohol problems exacerbating other circumstances like unemployment, homelessness, poor education and social welfare issues, but one can’t help wonder why there is such a prevalence of vagrancy in this country and in cities like Manchester in particular. My daughter, who makes Panorama and similar documentaries for the BBC, told me she has come across many hard-luck stories in researching her programmes and that often it is the system itself which lets these vulnerable people down. Too much bureaucracy, penny-pinching authorities,  insensitive officials, etc, and simply an unwillingness to spend the time and money required. Working in special education I know that it’s a lot more expensive to deal with people who have problems than those who don’t (obvious really) but in the end it’s a false economy to try and save money there.

So, as I can’t help solve the problem of homelessness I did what I often do with thorny issues, I wrote a song about it. The King Arthur line was going round in my head for ages, till I realised it fitted – beggars and vagrants have been an issue for hundreds of years and we seem no more able to know what to do now than way back then.

OLD KING ARTHUR’S BONES  

I was in a Northern city but it could’ve been anywhere,

The beggars were all huddled in the doorways by the square.

But the people hurried onwards trying not to meet their eyes,

Maybe tomorrow we’ll hear your desperate cries.  

Chorus: When old King Arthur’s bones come dancing home.

Oh the shops were bright and shiny on the boulevard so wide,

And if you’ve got the plastic you’re welcome to come inside.

But if your pocket’s empty better stay out on the street,

Don’t you know it’s not our problem if you ain’t got nothing to eat.

Then up spoke a poor man with a sad and sorry tale,

Of how he’d lived the good life till he crashed right off the rail.

Then drinking to forget about the heartache and the pain,

Give me a break he said to set me right again.  Like old…

From the stone age to the cell phone age it’s always been the same,

Some are losers, some are movers and shakers in the game.

And lying in the shadows are reminders of the cost,

Of how the big society, fails the poor and lost. Since old…

And in that Northern city as I quickly walked away,

Knowing I’d done nothing to help upon that day.

And left with just one question, with no answer I could see,

When will we turn the pages of our ancient history. And see…

When old King Arthur’s bones, when old King Arthur’s bones,

When old King Arthur’s bones, come dancing home.

Come dancing home.

PONGS, subtitled ‘Look To The Far Horizon’, is my latest song collection – all of which are poems turned into songs. These are not simply other people’s poems set to music because in most cases the originals have been changed, added to or subtracted from in various ways.

My first attempt at this was the title track, taken from ‘A Ship Sails Up To Bideford’ by Herbert Asquith (1881-1947), describing the sight of an old square rigged ship appearing over the horizon and heading for port. The poet imagines what cargo might be on board including the ‘fruits of Jaffa, dates, oranges and gold’ and also ‘fine silk from China and bales of Persian dyes’. I got the idea to use the poem almost in desperation after composing a tune but unable to think of any words (an unusual event for me) I began thumbing through an old school poetry anthology called ‘The Book Of A Thousand Poems’. I added a chorus and changed a few other elements to make it more suitable for audience participation.

Since then I have deliberately used this technique and shamelessly plundered poetry books for good material. In fact, most poems are not suitable for a musical treatment – because they have no rhymes or do not scan well, or have no narrative flow and often too subjective in style. However I have used poems by Edgar Lee Masters, Jonathan Swift, AE Houseman, John Betjeman, among others – with poetry which was often intended to be read aloud.

The book is due for publication soon and a demo CD of the songs also is nearly ready too.

As the song says, over 1500 people were killed when the Titanic went down, and many of those were poor immigrants who were locked below decks unable to escape. However, my lyrics are hopeful in the face of impossible odds – even if that was a forlorn hope for many. It seems to me this cry for a better future, for a chance to live even, is indelibly written in our souls – as Paul Simon once sang,

What is the point of this story
What information pertains
The thought that life could be better
Is woven indelibly
Into our hearts and our brains

‘Train In The Distance’ 1981

DON’T GO DOWN      

Don’t go down, don’t go down,

Don’t go down, down, down.

Don’t go down with the sinking ship,

Let her go – let her go.

The captain has his duty, the rich man has his gold,

But you don’t need to drown like a bilge rat in the hold.

Get up on deck and tell the crew by heck

You ain’t gonna die in the cold… down in the cold

Jump into a lifeboat, head out for the shore,

Let’s hope tomorrow is better than before.

JP Morgan’s in dismay – broke and busted on this day,

But you don’t need to die in the cold… down in the cold

From Greenland’s icy shoreline to the north Atlantic swell,

The berg that sank Titanic and sent them all to hell,

Lay waiting in the darkness and split the hull apart,

Like the cracking of a walnut or the breaking…

…of a young girl’s heart.

They said she was unsinkable – make full steam ahead,

Officer Murdoch ordered the warning bell.

But he was too late, and sealed Titanic’s fate,

Losing more than fifteen hundred souls… down in the cold.

Maurice Baker  © 2016

Thinking of doing a show at the Edinburgh Fringe next year based on my book, The Singer-Songwriter’s Last Stand, which would probably feature songs by Woody among others. At present I’m just gathering information about the festival – it’s a daunting prospect but exciting all the same. Anyway, I came up with this tribute song which I’ll maybe enter for Woody Fest next year as well (though don’t see how I could afford to go to America). I also want to put more of my songs on YouTube , when I get the time, and this would be a good candidate I think.

WOODY GUTHRIE SANG 

Woody Guthrie you sang us America’s song,

And all the world over your name will live on.

The stories you told us all rang so true,

Of justice and freedom and peace,

And those poor working man’s blues.

You sang about hobos down on their luck,

Of gamblers and outlaws who’d fight for a buck.

And poor dustbowl farmers with nothing to lose,

Rocking and rolling along, with those poor working man’s blues.

How I remember when as a young man,

I hit on the highway to travel this land.

And though it was far from the old USA

This land is our land as well, that’s what Woody would say.

Some called you a commie but I laughed when you said,

All of your life you had been in the red.

You fought against fascists and all slavery,

And spoke up for everyday folks, wherever they might be.

The sign by the road said no trespassing here,

Keep off this land, yes, the message was clear.

But on the other there was nothing to see,

That was the side that was made, for you and for me

Some of my song is taken from Woody’s, ‘This Land Is Your Land’ which, some said at the time, indicated his radical Commie views. Maybe, but I don’t thing he was really into party politics, it was more simple human rights that mattered to him.

THIS LAND IS YOUR LAND (one verse and chorus)

“As I went walking I saw a sign there

And on the sign it said “No Trespassing.”

But on the other side it didn’t say nothing,

That side was made for you and me.

This land is your land, this land is my land

From California to the New York island

From the Redwood forest to the Gulf Stream waters

This land was made for you and me.”

Woody spoke about human rights and his feelings towards ordinary people in other ways too, in books, newspaper articles and on radio.

“I hate a song that makes you think that you are not any good. I hate a song that makes you think that you are just born to lose. Bound to lose. No good to nobody. No good for nothing. Because you are too old or too young or too fat or too slim or too ugly or too this or too that. Songs that run you down or poke fun at you on account of your bad luck or hard travelling. I am out to fight those songs to my very last breath of air and my last drop of blood. I am out to sing songs that will prove to you that this is your world and that if it has hit you pretty hard and knocked you for a dozen loops, no matter what color, what size you are, how you are built, I am out to sing the songs that make you take pride in yourself and in your work. And the songs that I sing are made up for the most part by all sorts of folks just about like you. I could hire out to the other side, the big money side, and get several dollars every week just to quit singing my own kind of songs and to sing the kind that knock you down still farther and the ones that poke fun at you even more and the ones that make you think that you’ve not got any sense at all. But I decided a long time ago that I’d starve to death before I’d sing any such songs as that. The radio waves and your movies and your jukeboxes and your songbooks are already loaded down and running over with such no good songs as that anyhow.”

Here’s a nice picture of my three year old grand daughter, Evie, playing peek-a-boo. It has little to do with my new song below – but who cares?

THE KEY TO A HAPPY LIFE

Everybody wants to know everybody’s business,

That’s all they want to know.

Poking their noses where they don’t belong now,

No wonder those noses grow.

No, no, no… No wonder those noses grow.

The key to a happy life is to mind your own business,

And don’t go messing where you don’t belong.

The key to a happy life is to mind your own business,

You know that I’m right coz I sure ain’t wrong.

Tinker, tailor, soldier and a sailor,

Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief.

They’ve all got a job to do.

You lazy whatsit – so how about you?

Down in the valley in the old back alley,

There is Mrs Muddle on Jeremy Kyle,

Ranting and a-raving and a-misbehaving,

Meanwhile her kids are all a-running wild.

Down the ages turn the history pages,

Kings and emperors went to war.

Leaving a trail of death and destruction,

They all thought they were above the law.

The next door neighbour’s having a party,

Enough damn noise to waken the dead.

Don’t they realize people are sleeping?

They need it like a bang on the head.

One, two, three, four, five – BANG!   (X2)