Go To Hell
written by: Jack Wolfe Frost
@JackWolfeWriter
I sing the blues, to myself, sometimes happy, others sad,
My guitar moans gently, as I sing away, we are glad,
Together, as one, no wonder people think I’m mad.
I sing the blues, to other folks, to those who pass my way,
They stay and stop a while, most of them do pay,
And I lose myself somewhere in space, I think I’ve found my way.
The blues to me is not a song, or something played on guitar,
My voice in many ways meaningless, it comes out from afar,
But still, there’re those that simply think I am crazed, bizarre.
And so this world, society, of crumbling dirt and rot,
Seeks not for me, for thoughtfully, I have had my lot,
And my tune is working upwards reaching to red-hot.
Fire in my voice, it’s still the blues, my strings begin to melt
Fire everywhere, burning up, in a place people call “I felt”
They never listen, they never did. I hope they’ll go to Hell.
Jack Wolfe Frost is the Eternal Rebel; he rebels against everything which may have the word “rules” or “behave” within it, whether explicit or implicit. Born in Sheffield, UK, in 1956; he first started writing in 1982, as a hobby--dreaming that perhaps one day he might try and publish something. In his working life, he has enjoyed success in many diverse areas, including running his own company twice. Now older and wiser, he has once again taken pen to paper--looking for conformity to smash and rules to break…
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Go To Hell
Go To Hell
written by: Jack Wolfe Frost
@JackWolfeWriter
I sing the blues, to myself, sometimes happy, others sad,
My guitar moans gently, as I sing away, we are glad,
Together, as one, no wonder people think I’m mad.
I sing the blues, to other folks, to those who pass my way,
They stay and stop a while, most of them do pay,
And I lose myself somewhere in space, I think I’ve found my way.
The blues to me is not a song, or something played on guitar,
My voice in many ways meaningless, it comes out from afar,
But still, there’re those that simply think I am crazed, bizarre.
And so this world, society, of crumbling dirt and rot,
Seeks not for me, for thoughtfully, I have had my lot,
And my tune is working upwards reaching to red-hot.
Fire in my voice, it’s still the blues, my strings begin to melt
Fire everywhere, burning up, in a place people call “I felt”
They never listen, they never did. I hope they’ll go to Hell.