MUSIC AND LYRICS by Walt Wojtanik

My music site will be highlighting some of my compositions.
The site address is:

http://home.rr.com/wjw53

First song featured is:

(Give Me) A Dream For My Heart To Cling To

MISS COMMUNICATION

"Can I get a new phone my old one is lame,
it still makes calls but it isn't the same."
"It's like, so last year, I NEED something new,
I wouldn't be caught dead with this thing, would you?"
"Lay off of my music, I like it that loud,
and dressing this way, I stand out in a crowd!"
"How can you say that I show no respect,
and my room is just "lived in", that isn't neglect."
"Can I have a few dollars to go to the Mall?"
"If I had a better phone, I'd remember to call!"
"You're just so old-fashioned, Mom would say yes,
she must love me more, that'd be my guess"
So finally I speak, "Just when did 'We'll see"
turn into a promise between you and me?"
"I'm trying my hardest to keep things on track,
so give me a break and cut me some slack."
"And why must you always turn things around,
I'm just making sure that your feet keep their ground."
"You're just so unfair, my mother was right!"
"Can you give me a ride? I Love you Daddy. Good Night"


**Based on an actual conversation with Andrea my 16 year old daughter.

CARPE DIEM

The sun peeks
just nose high
over the horizon,
“Kilroy was here”
making the proclamation
“Arise to the new morning”
Many things in store for you
if you only keep a watchful eye.
For nothing expected
can come to any good.
Surprises haunt you at every turn
Pulses churn to the dictates
of the clear and present chaos
that is promised this morning,
and every successive one.
Stand and assume the position
to take your lumps, for
the reward for a job well done
awaits when you take up your rest.
Do not be intimidated
by the manner by which you are called,
nobody said it would be an easy chore,
only that it would be worth it at
curtains final fall.
Put forth your effort
with all the aplomb you can muster.
Face the challenges as they present themselves.
Do not back down from a fight
you will be poorly prepared to win,
and are most assuredly destined to lose,
but the fight is still yours.
Live this life. Take no prisoners.
Hold nothing back for the final reel.
Grab the bastard by the lapels
and shake like hell.
Seize the day!

NEVER COZY UP TO A DOZEN DONUTS

Your regimen is in control
you're taking off the pounds,
the image in your mirror
is quite a bit less round,
You watch your calories and carbs
you drink a lot of water,
your eyes get wide when you decide
to do something you shouldn't oughta.

You can't resist that peanut stick,
the Boston cremes look good.
Can't you see your belly filled with jelly,
do you really think you should?
Your stomach churns for crullers,
the lemon custards ooze,
you can't decide (but you gotta hide)
whichever one you choose.

You peek around the corners
to see whose eyes are spying,
Your mind is racing, just which one
will be the one you're trying.
You lift the lid to claim your prize
you're dying just to try it,
then comes the phrase that you despise,
"What about your diet?"

Then you walk away dejected,
your salivation's ceased,
Your craving for that plain old glazed,
is just about deceased.
So you grumble munching carrot sticks
when still you want to try 'em,
and you cry and moan 'til the cows come home,
"Just why the hell'd you buy 'em?"

Since you are on Weight Watchers,
counting points and such,
Never cozy up to a dozen donuts
the pressure's just too much.

"A moment on the lips,
a lifetime on the..." OH SHUT UP!

NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE TO A WILLING HEART

I started writing at thirteen,
lyrics for a song I hacked out
on the old organ we had at home.

Melody first, a little loop
of sound full blown into a
song, my first attempt.

Looking at the words
scratched onto a page
of spiral notebook paper

tattered and lined
random thoughts
of a future love long gone.

It had form and meter,
it had rhyme, my reason,
a poem of sorts on my page.

A poem never to see
the light of day for years,
dead ended in a rusted file cabinet,

along with every other lame attempt
of poem and prose that
had me believing I had talent.

Maybe talent, but nary a whiff
of confidence to show the
work that was even at this early

date, very personal, a glimpse
of my inner self, the now me
in miniature, immature,

but with a dream.
To see my words light up
the pages of this book of life.

The flesh was willing,
but the spirit was weak,
my ambition was a wishful thought.

I wanted to write in the worst way,
and that was what I did,
in the worst way.

As the years passed,
I still tried to convince myself
that I was a writer, a poet

a composer, an untapped
resource in a disconnected
reality, a dreamer

working for his hearts desire.
Hard work, hard words
mired in the muse of my mind.

But determined to live
according to the dictates
of my nightly mystic visions.

I dusted off my file cabinet,
shooing the dusty webs from the
hidden treasures long buried.

I sent my words into the world
unsure of their worth,
afraid of their power.

Given to the eyes of
others of a write minded bent,
sharing similar uncertainties

of their own. They labeled me,
tattooed me with an identity.
They called me poet.

The name I wanted;
the name they offered.
Nothing is impossible.

YOU HAVE TOO MANY IRONS IN THE FIRE

So you had a lousy round of golf,
your drives were terribly short,
just tell me who would take this game
and turn it into a sport.

You’re awkward in your backswing,
you’re whacking like a klutz,
you’ve gone and insulted the women’s pro
when you asked her to look at your putts

You lost the sock for your driver,
the lake devoured your balls,
you broke six tees, and bruised your knees,
that WAS a nasty fall.

You should’ve taken a mulligan
for dressing in those knickers.
You haven’t got the legs for those,
they caused a lot of snickers.

You landed in each sand trap,
the wind was rather tough,
you hooked and sliced most every shot
that you buried in the rough.

And now you’re in the clubhouse,
you’re at the nineteenth hole,
you’re downing bourbons like they’re scotch,
you’ve surely lost control.

Your clubs have landed in the hearth,
your caddy tried to snag them,
you threaten not to sign his card
if he attempts to bag them.

The woods are near completely gone,
aglow amidst the pyre.
And all the duffers do agree,
you’ve got too many irons in the fire.