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This is an original song written by me (John Kremer). As you can hear, it’s a simple song with five lines repeated three times, along with an Oo oo oo chorus. Enjoy! Walk Away lyrics You can walk away from a placeBut you can’t walk awayWalk away from your pastWalk away from your familyOr walk away from those you love Oo, oo, ooOo, oo, oo-ooOo, oo, ooOo, oo, oo, oo You can walk away from a placeBut you can’t walk awayWalk away from your pastWalk away from your familyOr walk away from those you love Oo, oo, ooOo, oo, oo-ooOo, oo, ooOo, oo, oo, oo You can walk away from a placeBut you can’t walk awayWalk away from your pastWalk away from your familyOr walk away from those you love Oo, oo, ooOo, oo, oo-ooOo, oo, ooOo, oo, oo, oo Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

This song is based on various six-word stories submitted to SixWordStories.net and SixWordMemoirs.com. Source: https://bookmarketingbestsellers.com/six-word-stories-for-those-who-want-to-write-better. Six-Word Stories lyrics For sale: baby shoes, never worn.Born a twin; Graduated only child.New genes demand expression—third eye.Strangers. Friends. Best friends. Lovers. Strangers.Found true love. Married someone else.Best friends. Some beers. New lovers.Friends. Liquid confidence. Admit love. Marriage.Two lovers. One parachute. No survivors.“Wrong number,” says a familiar voice. Just tried. Failed. Will try again.Wasted day. Wasted life. Dessert, please.It cost too much, staying human.I win lottery. Sun goes nova.Big bang. No God. Fadeout. End.Bang postponed. Not big enough. Reboot. Born in the desert, still thirsty.Stone cold. Rock solid. Gem pretty.Bad knee. Sore arm. Good heart.Stayed up too late. Found this.Hanging on by aspirin and caffeine.Where do we go from here?From content to content to contempt.Not starting over. Starting late, like.The rest? Still to be written.For sale: wisdom. Price: above pearls. For sale: baby shoes, never worn. Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

Memories is a song that tells a story. Memories lyrics MemoriesThe smell of her hairThe sight of her smileThe feel of her thighsThe taste of her lipsThe sound of her sighs Bangin’ the drum slowlyBetween the sheets actionBoink boink boinkBoo thang thatClappin’ cheeksFoolin’ aroundFuggin lovinGettin’ busyGettin’ luckyHanky pankyDancin’ the light fandangoDoin’ the hokey-pokeyHome run derbyHookin’ up on the slyHorizontal tangoHubba hubbaIn sync all the wayJumpin’ bonesKissipoo actionKnockin’ bootsGet to know her, know herC’mon, baby, light my fireMating calls again and againPaint it black, paint it blackRinging the ding-a-lingsSex sells, sells, sellsTickling the ivories MemoriesThe smell of her hairThe sight of her smileThe feel of her thighsThe taste of her lipsThe sound of her sighs MemoriesThe smell of her hairThe sight of her smileThe feel of her thighsThe taste of her lipsThe sound of her sighs Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

Enjoy this song adapted from Walt Whitman’s great poem Song of Myself from his book, Leaves of Grass. The Origin of All Songs Lyrics I celebrate myself, and sing myself,And what I assume you shall assume,For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loaf and invite my soul,I lean and loaf at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. My tongue, every atom of my blood, formed from this soil, this air,Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,Hoping to cease not till death. Creeds and schools in abeyance,Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,Nature without check with original energy. Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? have you reckoned the earth much?Have you practiced so long to learn to read?Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,) You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books,You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self. Stop this day and night with meand you shall possess the origin of all songs,You shall possess the good of the earth and sun. Stop this day and night with meand you shall possess the origin of all songs,You shall possess the good of the earth and sun. Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

Enjoy this country ballad inspired by one line in The Marshalls television series from earlier this evening. Fresh Air Is Suffocating lyrics The morning breaks like a pane of jagged glassAcross the green green lawns where shadows passI open the window just to feel the stingOf every polite and empty little thingThe garden is a riot of organized bloomWhile I’m pacing circles in a shattered room They say the sky is an open invitationBut it feels like a heavy hand of obligationThe sweetness of the pine is a bitter pillThe world moves forward while I stand stillThere is weight in the purity of the lightThat pushes down hard and keeps my throat tight Fresh air is suffocating for a soul like mineI’m drowning in the glare of the sunshineGive me the grit, the soot of a broken streetWhere the truth and the asphalt always meetI can’t find my breath where the air is clearSilence is the only sound I fear The neighbors are waving from far awayBuilding a stage for another hollow dayI’d rather be lost in a tunnel of smokeThan laughing along at a well-rehearsed jokeThe oxygen is thin when the heart is in doubtI’m looking for a way to let the sparkle out Fresh air is suffocating for a soul like mineI’m drowning in the glare of the sunshineGive me the grit, the soot of a broken streetWhere the truth and the asphalt always meetI can’t find my breath where the air is clearSilence is the only sound I fear Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

This country ballad, What Is the Grass?, is excerpted from Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman. What Is the Grass? lyrics A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose? Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,Growing among black folks as among white,Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. Tenderly will I use you curling grass,It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers’ laps,And here you are the mothers’ laps. This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,Darker than the colorless beards of old men,Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps. What do you think has become of the young and old men?And what do you think has become of the women and children? They are alive and well somewhere,The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,And ceas’d the moment life appear’d. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

Enjoy a fun happy children’s song featuring rhyming stories. Hey Diddle Diddle Lyrics Hey diddle diddle,The cat and the fiddle,The cow jumped over the moon;The little dog laughedTo see such craft,And the dish ran away with the spoon. Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John,Went to bed with his trousers on,One shoe off, and one shoe on,Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John. Diddlty, diddlty, dumpty,The cat ran up the plum tree,Give her a plum,And down she’ll come,Diddlty, diddlty, dumpty. Hey diddle diddle,The cat and the fiddle,The cow jumped over the moon;The little dog laughedTo see such craft,And the dish ran away with the spoon. Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

Check out this children’s song featuring This Little Piggy Went to Market. This Little Piggy Went to Market Lyrics This little piggy went to marketThis little piggy stayed at homeThis little piggy had roast beefThis little piggy had noneAnd this little piggy went “Wee, Wee, Wee”All the way back home! This little piggy went to marketThis little piggy stayed at homeThis little piggy had roast beefThis little piggy had noneAnd this little piggy went “Wee, Wee, Wee”All the way back home! This little piggy went to marketThis little piggy stayed at homeThis little piggy had roast beefThis little piggy had noneAnd this little piggy went “Wee, Wee, Wee”All the way back home! Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

The lyrics for this song are based on this short excerpt from an article in Arizona Highways magazine: The house isn’t all straight corners, and it’s a little hard to keep clean. But this is just home. Just natural. When it leaks, it leaks; then I just patch everything right back up. — Michael Kotutwa Johnson His short comment reminds me of the homes in Minnesota where I grew up. One had a root cellar only accessible when we lifted the living room carpet. The house had been built from a one-room cabin with rooms added over the years. Another home had a deep hole in the basement for coal or wood to fire the previous furnace. I was often afraid to go near that hole, thinking I might fall in and never hit bottom. There were many things to love about both those homes. My Home Lyrics The frame is leaning to the westA crooked line across the floorI gave up trying for the bestAnd settled for the open doorThe angles never meet just rightThe carpenter was likely blindBut in the fading golden lightIt’s just the place I had in mind But this is just the way it goesThe only shelter that I knowIt’s a natural thing to lose your wayWithin the walls of yesterdayNo polished stone or marble hallCould ever hold me like this wallIt’s bent and broken, gray and oldBut it’s the only truth I hold The clouds begin to gather thickThe tin roof starts its hollow songThe rain is coming fast and quickTo reveal where the joints are wrongA steady drip upon the bedA puddle forming by the chairI pull the hat down on my headAnd find a bucket sitting there I’ll find a hammer and a nailI’ll find a piece of scrap and glueAgainst the thunder and the galeI’ll make the rotten wood feel newI patch the holes to stop the floodUntil the sky turns blue againIt’s in my bones and in my bloodTo fix the places where I’ve been But this is just the way it goesThe only shelter that I knowIt’s a natural thing to lose your wayWithin the walls of yesterdayNo polished stone or marble hallCould ever hold me like this wallIt’s bent and broken, gray and oldBut it’s the only truth I hold But this is just the way it goesThe only shelter that I knowIt’s a natural thing to lose your wayWithin the walls of yesterdayNo polished stone or marble hallCould ever hold me like this wallIt’s bent and broken, gray and oldBut it’s the only truth I hold Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

Celebrate Valentine’s Day with a country song about love. This song is taken from Saint Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians, 13:1-13. Valentine Love Song Lyrics Love suffers long, and is kindLove envies notLove causes not a stirLove is not puffed upLove does not behave unseemlyLove seeks not its ownLove is not easily provokedLove thinks no evil Love does not rejoice in iniquityLove rejoices in the truthLove bears all thingsLove believes all thingsLove hopes all thingsLove endures all things Love never failsWhere there are prophecies, they shall failWhere there are tongues, they shall ceaseWhere there is knowledge, it shall vanish For we know in part, and we prophesy in partWhen the perfect comes, the part falls awayWhen I was a childI spoke as a childI understood as a childI thought as a childWhen I became a manI put away childish things Now we see through a glass darklyBut then face to faceNow I know in partThen I will know as I am known Now abides faith, hope, love — these threeBut the greatest of these is love Love bears all thingsLove believes all thingsLove hopes all thingsLove endures all things There are three: faith, hope, and loveThe greatest of these is love Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

An excerpt from the December issue of the Anecdotally newsletter We’re not visiting the elite tonight. We’re visiting everyday people. Because every one of them has a story. They moved through the cemetery, stopping at the graves of ordinary men and women— people history would mostly overlook. At each stop, there was a moment that connected. A choice someone made. A hardship they endured. A small act that mattered. By the end of the walk, the message was clear. You don’t have to be extraordinary to be great. … The stories that land most powerfully aren’t epic. They’re human. They come from small, specific moments that carry a bit of truth or wisdom. From this excerpt, I created the following lyrics (and the song above). Ordinary Men, Ordinary Women Lyrics The moon hangs low above the street tonight,No velvet ropes, no golden light,Just whispers in the shadows, soft and deep,Where ordinary hearts lie half asleep. The graveyard holds markers of broken dreams,No crowns of fame, no grand schemes,Just names carved deep in weathered stone,Each one a world, now left alone. Oh, every soul’s a song unsung,A story created, rung by rung.You don’t have to be the best to be great.Just tell your story, just be straight. It’s not the epic stories that count.It’s the small stories that mount up,Human stories that speak so true.Human stories that so few knew. The janitor hums a tune so old,The waitress counts her tips in copper gold,The barber sighs with scissors in hand,All creating farewells no one planned. Ordinary men. Ordinary women.And all the stories that might have been.A hard choice someone once made.A sadness that will never fade. Oh, every soul’s a song unsung,A story created, rung by rung.You don’t have to be the best to be great.Just tell your story, just be straight. Ordinary men. Ordinary women.And all the stories that might have been.A hard choice someone once made.A sadness that will never fade. Oh, every soul’s a song unsung,A story created, rung by rung.You don’t have to be the best to be great.Just tell your story, just be straight. Inspired by the Anecdotally Newsletter edited by Mark Schenk: https://www.anecdote.com/newsletter. Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

If by Rudyard Kipling If you can keep your head when all about youAre losing theirs and blaming it on you;If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise; If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;If you can meet with triumph and disasterAnd treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spokenTwisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,And stoop and build ’em up with wornout tools; If you can make one heap of all your winningsAnd risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,And lose, and start again at your beginningsAnd never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinewTo serve your turn long after they are gone,And so hold on when there is nothing in youExcept the Will which says to them: “Hold on”; If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch;If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minuteWith sixty seconds’ worth of distance run—Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son! If you can fill the unforgiving minuteWith sixty seconds’ worth of distance run—Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son! Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

I always arise as the horizon reddens. Rays of sunshine bending round the global curvature urge me up for yet another day. A gentle awakening. So many days now, so many urges. Her voice of choice was cool and refreshing, like the sound of water in a rushing stream. You will write this down. Now. Awaken and rise. Crisp and cool the days are now. Must be early fall. No, it is my birthday this week. I was born during the hot and muggy month of August on the Delaware River. The rapids were still running. As were the trolleys. My mother said she brought me home on one. Five cents. Ah yes, the days are cooler now, the summer's shorter. Excerpted from John Graves’s novel Life by Chance. Tell Me a Story Podcast is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

Isaac spotted two empty seats ahead and tapped John’s shoulder. He didn’t want to miss what would happen in this auditorium today. Two minutes later, his eyes met hers, and Isaac didn’t know why, but it stirred something in him, drawing him closer to her, perhaps an urge to know more. His sense of detachment and high intelligence quickly surfaced, urging him to break eye contact immediately. And yet he kept staring into those ocean-blue eyes, the swirling whirlpool of emotions hidden in the depths, passion on the ice, and Isaac blinked. After a few minutes, it was Nancy’s turn, and Isaac’s breath hitched higher unknowingly. Excerpted from Thrall Conspiracy: Genesis by John Sorflaten Start writing today. Use the button below to create a Substack of your own This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe

I told my wife she should embrace her mistakes. She hugged me. I liked it. To support my work with this podcast, please buy me a cup or two of coffee! - https://www.buymeacoffee.com/BookMarketing This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit tellmeastory.substack.com/subscribe