Carry Small Bills

I wasn't stuck on my song so much as I was stuck on my songwriting...

For ten weeks I copied and recopied "Pay the Buskers" from one notebook to another hoping for the magic line that would wrap it all together and make way for what I thought was a prize-winning coda: "So remember talk to strangers, carry small bills, and baby, be a busker if you will." I couldn't let go of it.

I couldn't let go--of this and many other choice stanzas--until I realized that this song was not just about the lesson I learned as a child about paying the buskers, but also about the lessons of impermanence. Once I committed to that, I was able to ditch my beloved coda and finish the song. Touche.

Pay the Buskers

In an airport parking annex

The escalators run all night

In the corridor I hold her hand, in the distance I see a man

His saxophone shine is bright

My mother dropped coins in their cases

Her contribution never in vain

She said, "Music adds life to these places."

Take 5 echoes in my 5-year old brain

She said, "Appreciate impermanent collections.

"See them; make sure your eyes have met.

"As you go through life don’t lose your affection.

"Pay the buskers any chance you get."

Chorus

She said, “Daughter, pay the buskers, pay the buskers.”

She explained to me just how their songs would lull her

Away from her maternal demands

She said, “It may not last, but it’s our local color.”

I said, “I’m trying Mom, but I don’t understand.”

She said, “Don’t you know that every crayon is here, girl?

“And don’t you know that every crayon will melt?

“When we go home, remember they were singing,

“And as you fall asleep, remember how it felt.”

Chorus

Even though you cannot hold their treasures

Pay them. It’s how you know they’re real

A dollar for a melody in measures

It’s how your beating heart can make a deal