Baleful Balladry

“It began when Mike wrote and asked if I’d mind if he sang one of my parodies to the original tune. Mind? Like any sane person, I accepted immediately. And it was terrific. He’s a master at matching tone of voice to tone of voice; and we find the same things funny, or not. Then he said he’d like to set one of my non-parody poems to music, and I was thrilled. That was even more terrific. For a while in the first Trump administration and then during Covid (Mike lives in North Carolina; I live in Ohio, so there was no fear) we produced dozens of parodies and had a great time posting them on Facebook. But after a while, Mike suggested that we back off the parodies and work on original songs. So, we did. I don’t know why we’re not rich and famous, yet. Probably we’ll find out from the comments here.”—Marcus Bales

Balefully Yours

By Marcus Bales

CLEVELAND Ohio—(Hubris)—November/December 2026—For the past nine years, Mike Whitney and I have been collaborating on writing songs together. It began when Mike wrote and asked if I’d mind if he sang one of my parodies to the original tune. Mind? Like any sane person, I accepted immediately. And it was terrific. He’s a master at matching tone of voice to tone of voice; and we find the same things funny, or not. Then he said he’d like to set one of my non-parody poems to music, and I was thrilled. That was even more terrific.

For a while in the first Trump administration and then during Covid (Mike lives in North Carolina; I live in Ohio, so there was no fear) we produced dozens of parodies and had a great time posting them on Facebook. But after a while, Mike suggested that we back off the parodies and work on original songs. So, we did. I don’t know why we’re not rich and famous, yet. Probably we’ll find out from the comments here.

Recently, Elizabeth Boleman-Herring noticed my posts of both my poems and Mike’s and my songs on Facebook and asked whether I’d be interested in contributing a regular column to Hubris. That’s why you’re reading this, if you’re still with me, here. So, the requirements are a few paragraphs of prose and a few poems, as often as I can within the six-times a year format. My sole issue with this is that I have 3000 poems, Mike and I have nearly 200 songs, and I’m in my 70s, so it seems as if it’ll take a while to plough through them all.

Since the columnar format means some sort of thematic element, I’m going to start with some of the original songs Mike and I have written. I do the words. He does the music. Each appearance here I’ll also try for a sort of theme within the songs, as well. Since recently we’ve been doing love songs, I’m going to start with a few of those.

The Center of the Maze

Lyric by Marcus Bales; tune by Mike Whitney.

We did a little cooking and we took our time to eat.
     We used the pretty plates and silverware.
And afterwards we got the kitchen all cleaned up and neat,
     Then sat down with a quiet drink to share,

     I hope that I don’t die tonight
          But baby if I do
     I hope it’s from the bright delight
          Of making love with you.

And then we watched a movie that we both have seen before,
     A little action mixed with some romance.
At one time we’d have found ourselves all naked on the floor
     But now we go to bed to dance that dance.

     I hope that I don’t die tonight
          But baby if I do
     I hope it’s from the bright delight
          Of making love with you.

We found each other through our lives’ complexities and coils
     From path to path amid the wild world’s ways.
Now here among these silken sheets and softly scented oils
     We’re living at the center of the maze.

     I hope that I don’t die tonight
          But baby if I do
     I hope it’s from the bright delight
          Of making love with you.

An Evening Spent with You
Lyric by Marcus Bales; tune written and song performed by Mike Whitney.

A dry martini on a rainy night.
   Tomorrow we have work, though, so not two,
And then a lovely meal by candlelight.
   We’ll laugh and talk together as we do
   To celebrate an evening spent with you.

Browning spoke of breadth and depth and height
   And I suppose that I could make that do,
Enjoyment of the deep within the trite,
   And laugh and talk together as we do
   To celebrate an evening spent with you.

Chorus
     Love makes a diamond out of anthracite
          That gleams and glitters like the morning dew—
     That glows as bright as something pretty bright,
          To celebrate an evening spent with you.

Perhaps we may work up an appetite,
   Once stirred and shaken is attended to,
We’ll have a lovely meal by candlelight
   We’ll laugh and talk together as we do
   To celebrate an evening spent with you.

The bread and jug is likely copyright
   And probably, I guess so’s temps perdu,
Enjoyment of the deep within the trite,
But we can have a meal by candlelight
A dry martini on a rainy night,
   And laugh and talk together as we do
   To celebrate an evening spent with you.

Chorus
     Love makes a diamond out of anthracite
          That gleams and glitters like the morning dew—
     That glows as bright as something pretty bright,
          To celebrate an evening spent with you.

   We’ll laugh and talk together as we do
   To celebrate an evening spent with you.

Maybe Whisky Will
Lyric by Marcus Bales; tune written and song performed by Mike Whitney.

Your eyes are blinds that don’t reveal
     Whatever soul you own.
The lips I still can sometimes feel
     Are gone, and I’m alone.

The promises of your ideals
     That I had hoped to trust
Now lie beneath your chariot wheels
     That ground them into dust.

     They say that time will finally fray
          This pain these memories spill.
     If tears won’t wash your face away
          Then maybe whisky will.

How long through failing love’s decay
     Must I wait here until
If tears won’t wash the pain away
     Then maybe whisky will.

I’d rather hold the sad bouquet
     That loving too much grew
Than be the one who walks away
     The way you always do.

     They say that time will finally fray
          This pain these memories spill
     If tears won’t wash your face away
          Then maybe whisky will.

The loving words I learned to say
     I’ve now learned to distill:
If tears won’t wash my love away
     Then maybe whisky will.

Dance Lessons
Lyric by Marcus Bales; tune written and song performed by Mike Whitney.

Her shirttails tied up in a knot,
     She’s toned up like a concert A.
She looks like all you dreamed of hot,
     If only you knew what to say.

“You want to dance?” she asks, and smiles.
     You can’t believe your mom was right
When teaching you those slower styles.
     You nod as if you think you might.

And suddenly it all makes sense,
     The lights and music, step and whirl,
Old lessons newly more intense
     With scents of warm and fragrant girl.

Another dance, another song,
     You syncopate your step and swing
She effortlessly sways along
     As if expecting just that thing.

Oh, what a time. You dance each dance
     And each one’s different, each the same,
Not noticing there’s been no chance
     For asking one another’s name.

Then there she goes off in a crush
     Of laughing friends whose glances dart
Your way. Your mind’s a vacant hush
     As if it’s lost a vital part.

In the parking lot’s dim glow
     Your mom’s in conversation with
Another mom that you don’t know.
     She introduces Mrs. Smith.

Then there she is—you lose your breath—
     She hugs on Mrs. Smith as Mom,
Who says, “Where have you been, now, Beth?”
     And all the world’s abruptly calm.

Beth looks at you with widened eyes.
     You clothe confusion with a cough.
You see your mother’s eyebrow rise
     As Beth and Mrs. Smith walk off.

“Anything to tell, by chance?”
     Your mom asks as you drive away,
But, “Thanks for teaching me to dance”
     Is all you can contrive to say.

“Hmph.” She says, and side-eyes you
     As she slows down for turning right.
You stare, with only half a clue,
     Out the windshield at the night.

Remembering how it all made sense,
     The lights and music, step and whirl,
Old lessons newly more intense
     With scents of warm and fragrant girl.

     You stare, with half a clue in sight
     Out the windshield at the night,
     Having seen a little light.

Suddenly, it all makes sense,
     The lights and music, step and whirl,
Old lessons newly more intense
     With scents of warm and fragrant girl.

     You stare, with half a clue in sight
     Out the windshield at the night.

Things That You Just Know
Lyric by Marcus Bales; tune written and song performed by Mike Whitney.

I saw her side-eye me when I walked in,
Then catch me looking with her perky sass
By winking in the mirror, with her grin
Reflected there behind the bar like sin
On leave alert for someone to harass,
And toasted me with what was in her glass.
     I didn’t see what other choice I had
          There’s things that you just know will turn out bad.
          There’s things that you just know will turn out bad.

     Barman! What’s that pretty woman’s drink?
     Put one on my tab, and let her know.
     Ah, there! She’s looked. Now I give her a wink—
     And in a while we’ll laugh and drink. And though
          We’re neither rose-lipt maid nor light-foot lad,
               There’s things that you just know will turn out bad.
               There’s things that you just know will turn out bad.

I sauntered toward her like my heart was whole
And confidence was not the thing I lacked.
I stopped to play the jukebox, Nat King Cole
Instead of something loudly rock’n’roll,
Then glanced across to see how she’d react
To check my intuition was intact.
       I’d thought that something in her look was sad
            From things that you just knew had turned out bad.
            Things that you just knew had turned out bad.

     She’s not a princess, and I’m no Galahad,
     I’m not a grad, and she’s no under-grad,
     We both pretend there’s reasons to be glad,
          Things that you just knew had turned out bad.

I left three stools between us as my play—
And not down at the end, so she could see
That I was close enough if she should say
A word or two, but not too far away  
That we would have to talk too loud if she
Decided after all to speak to me.
     Was that too far away? Yeah, just a tad—
          But there are things you know will turn out bad.
          Things you know will turn out bad.

     She’s not a flapper, and I no foxtrot lad,
     She’s not a flapper, and I no Charleston lad,
     She’s not a flapper and I no sheik-like lad
     Our dance is metaphor, I can’t be mad
     I didn’t see what other choice I had.
     There’s things that you just know will turn out bad.
          Just know will turn out bad.
               Turn out bad.