Greg Stump Songbook

You worry ‘bout your home team
You whimper when they lose.
You worry about your self-esteem
And if your socks match with your shoes.
You worry about the weather
And what it’s gonna do;
How come you don’t worry about
The people who worry ‘bout you?

You worry about Honduras
But you don’t know where it is.
You only get off your fat ass
To go clean out the fridge.
You worry ‘bout Michael Jackson
For all the good that’ll do.
How come you don’t worry about
The people who worry ‘bout you?

You worry ‘bout Britney
And whether Paris Hilton’s fat
You say you worry about Beyoncé
But I know where you’re at!
You just dreamin’ ‘bout pussy
You know I know it’s true
Pussy keeps you from worryin’ ‘bout
The people who worry ‘bout you!

You worry ‘bout your haircut
Or whatever you call that mop
You’d worry about the air but
Your worries are almost up.
If I don’t get some quality time
There’s no telling what I’ll do!
What’s up with you not worry about
The people who worry ‘bout you?

We all worry about you, baby,
We see you reelin’ from pillar to post
I got a feeling makes me crazy
That I’m just looking at a ghost.
Please take another Xanax
Or whatever you gotta do
But you better start worryin’ ‘bout
The people who worry ‘bout you.

I seen you worry about the postage
It takes to send a card to France.
Now even in your dotage
You worry ‘bout what’s in your pants.
It’s time you gave up worryin’
About what is false and true;
It’s time you got to worryin’ bout
The people who worry ‘bout you!

© Composed the evening of July 22, 2009
By Jackson Hogen

As you bask in the glow of your public’s acclaim –
The clutching throngs all screaming your name –
You linger in the spotlight ‘til the bulb goes out
Then tousle your mane to delight the devout
Who worship at your altar, anoint you as a wizard;
Honoring the magic soul who conjured up a “Blizzard.”
Such fawning is so obvious; you don’t need it, that is true:
For you have inner happiness; you are so beautiful to you.

You’re irresistible to women who assault you every night;
You surrender to their naughtiness just to be polite.
The accolades one might find displayed upon your wall
You’d gladly all send back if that weren’t bad protocol.
That you often chide your minions to hold up another mirror
It’s not to soothe your vanity it’s just to check your rear
That’s in itself a marvel Mother Nature can’t outdo;
No wonder you can’t help yourself; you’re so beautiful to you!

You’d answer all your fan mail if you only had the time;
Or give more to worthy causes if you only had a dime
Left in the Self-Promotion Fund that’s sadly overdrawn
Due to your predilection for caviar-stuffed prawns.
You need them for your energy, raging at the console,
Commanding flitting images to dance to rock ‘n’ roll.
It can’t be easy having all the gifts you think you do
Thank God you have the strength to be so beautiful to you.

© With Cheeky Reverence
by Jackson Hogen, August 9, 2009

{Sung as a torch song, of course.}

I long to speak to him
Though it be just a whim,
I feel exposed, out on a limb
Until I can speak to him!

Whether I’m wrong or right
Whether it’s noon or night,
I can’t tell up from upright
Until I speak to him!

I could try to walk the street
Just trying to make ends meet,
Asking strangers to trick or treat,
When all I want is for him to speak!

I have no use for ESP,
It would be of no help to me;
For I’m sure that internally
He still won’t speak to me!

Time ticks on without a pause
While he makes Legend of Aahhhs.
I’m a mouse in his cat’s paws…
Until he’ll speak to me!

© A Lament Composed in Honor of the Baron Von Stump
This June 22, 2009
By Jackson Hogen, His Humble Servant

Every scene I see reminds me I’m
Burning through my precious time;
Like Carroll’s rabbit I’m terrible-late
I have limited my options;
I fight the urge to absquatulate
To Timbuktu or Aspen.

Inspiration sprouts everywhere
It’s as ubiquitous as air;
It’s not a lack of vision
There’s loads of that to spare!
It’s just this indecision…
That lurks underneath my hair.

Just below that tangled web
In which all combs lose traction
There’s a movie, A to Zed,
With music, plot and action.
Just lift the scalp, I can’t refuse,
And extract whatever’s there;
Then run it through a centrifuge:
There’s a movie in here somewhere!

I wish there were a better way
To capture all I have to say
Than hack my way, reel by reel,
Scene by scene and byte by byte,
Almost embracing all I feel –
Almost, that is… but not quite!

A lamp’s been rubbed; I’m its genie
Yet granting wishes makes me queasy.
If someone could just find a wire
That plugs directly to my back
We could download all that I desire
To the hard drive on my Mac!

I’ve tried alchemy and voodoo dolls
Scientology and shaved my balls
All in an effort to extract
From some recess between my ears
An ineffable work of art
There’s a movie in here somewhere!

They say that life imitates art,
Or is it the other way ‘round?
Me, I’m trying to play my part
Mixing image, light and sound.
No need to remind me,
I’m painfully aware;
If I look deep enough inside me
There’s a movie in here somewhere!

In Honor of His Excellency the Baron Von Stump
© Composed this first day of July, 2009
By Jackson Hogen

My eight-hour day somehow adds up to ten;
No sooner do I get to bed than I get up again.
I’d love to take a break, but I ain’t got the time
I’m running on a treadmill, a mile for a dime;
If I don’t lose this job, and soon, I’m gonna lose my mind!

So I’m looking for salvation and trying out solutions:
Got a brochure from the Baptists and an ad from the Rosicrucians.
I checked out Sun Mung Moon and a sect in Katmandu:
I tried on beliefs and gods like Carrie Bradshaw tries on shoes.
I even tried some Ecstasy, but instead I got the blues!

I sought indoctrination in the rapture of the Mystics,
Kowtowed to Orientalism, did Feng Shui and threw I Ching sticks.
I looked into the abyss, my future to foretell;
I threw a hundred quarters down a wishing well.
I hoped to be saved by Jesus, but was just saved by the bell!

Now my inner storm has calmed, I seek no greener pasture;
And I did it all without the aid of Buddha or Zoroaster.
It’s been a triumph of the will and the audacity to dare.
How did I seize life by the collar, become so debonair?
I owe it all to my new mantra, “I really just don’t care!”

So stifle the cries for my Redemption, my soul’s already saved!
And I didn’t trade it to the Devil or do anything depraved.
My life’s still a sorry slog, but I no longer feel despair.
No matter how you try, you can’t set fire to my hair.
I’ve found inner peace for I really just don’t care!

My days aren’t any shorter, my portfolio still’s down;
My girlfriend, she left me when the circus came to town.
But to fate I am indifferent, I now do everything with flair!
I told my boss to take this job and shove it you know where!
Life has gotten so much easier now that I really just don’t care!

Composed on the first and second days of August, 2009
© By Jackson Hogen

{Lyricist’s Note: Imagine a calypso beat…}

The sages say, “There’s nobility in labor,”
And as sages are wise, it’s no doubt true.
Yet labor per se’s a quality I abhor
Unless there’s some compensation due.
Whether digging a ditch or beating a nail
Putting out fires or some other trade
Like driving a cab or delivering mail:
It’s wonderful to get paid!

I realize we’re supposed to work
For principles grander than ourselves
But I’d feel like such a jerk
Working for legumes and puka shells.
The value of work isn’t transcendental –
Man cannot live on hope delayed –
Without going irretrievably mental.
Oh, it’s wonderful to get paid!

When Moses parted the Sea of Red
His People to set free
He hinted to old Beelzebub
My Boss makes me work for free!
So the Lord sent Mo a little scratch
And a condo in Marina del Rey.
His People got through a ticklish patch;
Oy, it’s wonderful to get paid!

The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker
All yearn for life and liberty;
Even the hooker who’s an orgasm faker
Won’t surrender her screams for free.
From the lowly serf to the CEO
And everyone in between, I’m afraid,
Won’t stoop to toil for just Cheerios!
It’s much better to get paid!

© Composed in gratitude this 6th of July, 2009
By Jackson Hogen

When I’m stuck for a pithy line
For a movie, book or play
I don’t look up to the Divine;
I look in the li•brar•y.

For all that’s old is certain to renew
After all, it’s Nature’s way;
So I borrow the occasional phrase or two
From some old guys who’ve passed away.

It’s popular to theorize
About the roots of creativity
But I believe that to plagiarize
Is a form of piety.

If in the beginning there was The Word
Then each word since is a copy.
By now you’d think we’d be inured
To this ancient form of flatt’ry.

They say, “Child is Father to the Man,”
And who am I to disagree?
For if this is The Universal Plan
Then those I imitate, copy me!

Yet you don’t hear me raise my voice
To protest this foul calamity.
My forebears really had no choice:
There’s no such thing as originality!

© Puked up this 4th of July, 2009
By Jackson Hogen

Was it only last week, or was it June… or July?
When your wife broke her back and you called me and cried?
I remember feeling sad and almost wrote you a note;
But I can’t tend to every crisis and stay within quote.
I have a brutal schedule; it demands everything from me;
If I listen to your whining I won’t get past scene three!
Why won’t all my friends just let me be me?
The guy who has to make the movie.

I heard about the tidal wave that cost a thousand souls.
But that didn’t stop my editing or polishing b-roll.
I backed over my cocker spaniel and neglected my relations;
As artists we often do that; we’re slaves to our sensations.
I wish that I could help you with your gout or leprosy;
I don’t recall the exact affliction and your name’s a bit fuzzy;
I’m focused on my oeuvre in all its complexity;
For I’ve got to go complete my movie.

I’m as distressed as you are about the current state of affairs,
But I didn’t cause the swine flu, Rush Limbaugh or Fox News.
I’m just a humble filmmaker, what the French call a cinéaste,
I mean no harm to any man; I sit mostly on my ass.
I’d love to hear about your divorce, I’m sure the bits are juicy,
But later, perhaps, after I watch this episode of “Lucy.”
She’s such an inspiration for a genius like me,
The chap who has to make the movie.

Misery is everywhere, lost jobs… savings for retirement…
Here’s a sleeve to cry on; I’ve got a movie in development!
There are music tracks to lay down, tracking shots to wrap!
Shut up about your derivatives and credit default swaps!
I’d love to know about your woes and asinine insecurity,
Suicide, blah-blah-blah, can’t you see I’m in a hurry?
How can I get due recognition like my pal Martin Scorsese,
If no one will ever let me be the guy who makes the movie?

© A Lament Composed for Herr Stump, June 2, 2009
By Jackson Hogen

Where I grew up there were no farms; no one drove a Chevrolet;
I realize now I then despised the life I lead today.
I’d stay out late, wake up past 8:00, drink nothing but fine wine;
I had no dog, slept like a log and read the New York Times.

I made mistakes, I must admit, lost dough I didn’t own;
Before I’d known what I’d blown, they repossessed my home.
Then my wife ran off with her tennis pro; half of nothing’s left for me;
I’m down on my luck, live in my truck; how’d I ever get so country?

My old Volvo-driving neighbors don’t write me anymore
I drink Bud Lite, get into fights, eat waffles by the score.
The girl I love is pregnant, but she says that it’s not mine.
If I total the cost after all that I’ve lost, I ain’t worth a dime.

Back then I loved Shania Twain, but not cuz she could sing
Now I pine for Patsy Cline and pray to shed my sins.
The rodeo’s my favorite show, I love NASCAR on TV;
I’m never bored now I found the Lord; how’d I get so country?

My bumper says to vote Ron Paul if you believe in liberty
We’d salute our flag every day we rise, if it were up to me.
We’d pay no tax to Commie quacks, pro football would be free!
Pour another shot of whatever you got; how’d I ever get so country?

I still don’t know how to rope a cow, I’ve never rid a horse;
The only birds I’ve ever shot were on some old golf course.
But I’m still Country to my core, just based on history:
I lost it all, gave up “you” for “y’all;” how’d I ever get so country?

If I had a dog I know she’d die, for that’s how my life’s been goin’.
It seems like all the things I know are no longer worth the knowin’.
If I’d known all along life was a song, just between you and me?
Take rock ‘n’ roll, jazz, pop or soul, but don’t live your life in Country!

© Jackson Hogen
August 15, 2009

The following was inspired by the Baron’s remark that post-recovery he will be able to, and I quote, “play tennis.”
Like Sen. Kyl’s remarks on Planned Parenthood, it is not intended to be factual.

One day Greg a-skiing went
And somehow his knee got bent
In an oblique, sideward kind of way
While performing some exotic ballet.

Years later, given the option to operate.
Our hero chose, at last, to cooperate.
Driven by an urge to re-engage
With an athletic past from a bygone age.

That the intervening years were rough
To liver, kidneys, lungs and such
Did not daunt our regal cineaste
For he had healthy hair and a robust ass!

Buoyed by dull memories of golf and polo
Of speaking Russian and playing the piccolo,
Greg dreamt of a past he’d so enjoy
If he’d only known it when he was a boy.

That Russian had never sullied his mind
That polo and golf and running of any kind
Have never been part of his repertoire –
Well, why spoil such a “belle histoire?”

All who love him cannot wait
For the day when he’ll recuperate.
And suddenly, as if touched by God,
He’ll be able to hit a topspin lob.

Oh wondrous medicine! Oh Doctor Divine!
That you can fix a knee and in your spare time
Bestow abilities heretofore unknown
On a man whose favorite posture is prone!

With much love and hope for a speedy recovery,
The Pontiff

Just where the idea came from, scholars differ to this day.
Some say it was with civil rights, equal work for equal pay.
That each mate in a couple should match up in every way;
But what starts out as 50/50 never ends that way.

There’s one fly in the ointment, one flaw in this design:
It’s never 50/50 when it comes to yours and mine.
Each night you give 61 percent, but I get 39;
I drink every drop of gin, but you drink all the wine!

Everybody goes, “There’s no such thing as even, nor has there ever been.
What the King calls fifty cents is a quarter to the Queen.
There’s no such thing as even, one plus one don’t equal two.
The things that mean so much to me don’t matter much to you!”

You always go to market, I’m always staying home.
I take out the garbage, but you pay for the phone.
It’s a never-ending seesaw, a swinging metronome
No matter how things even out, you’re right and I am wrong.

You’re never going to mow the lawn; I’ll never make the bed.
But I called the guy who knew the guy who then rebuilt the shed.
You haven’t cooked me breakfast since your Shih Tzu turned up dead.
Whoever thinks life’s 50/50 is damaged in the head.

There’s no such thing as even, one plus one don’t equal two.
The things that mean so much to me don’t matter much to you!

I like early Dylan, you like Black-Eyed Peas.
I pray standing on my head; you worship on your knees.
When I say, “Go screw yourself!” you say, “Screw yourself, please!”
What started out at 50/50 soon is 30/70.

There’s no such thing as even, one plus one don’t equal two.
The things that mean so much to me don’t matter much to you!

© Evenly composed the evening of July 28, 2009
By Jackson Hogen

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