I would like to eat a horsefly 
but my lily pad gave out on me, 
Eating bugs is pretty awesome
And I’ll jump on you if you disagree

Reach your sticky tongue through the surface 
And lick my eyes tonight
Am I your

Leap frog, leap frog, 
Will you please come back to my pond
Leap frog leap frog
Will you eat my legs when I’m gone / don’t you turn your back on me

Head is always underwater
They never taught me how to swim
But jump into my slimy backside
And we can can do anything

Reach your sticky tongue through the surface 
And lick my eyes tonight
Am I your

Leap frog, leap frog, 
Will you please come back to my pond
Leap frog leap frog
Will you eat my legs when I’m gone / don’t you turn your back on me

Leapfrog (1.3.25 - Jamuary 2025 Day 3)

Hop On A Train (1-04-25 Jamuary 2025 Day 4)

Thanks to Melanie Nute for helping with this absolute concept of a banger

What Happened Here 1-05-25 (Jamuary 2025 Day 5)

Thanks to my friend Brett Kennedy for making that chicken squeal. Pictured are (almost) all the things in my house with which I built all the instruments used on this track. Missing is a glass used for the xylophone, and my acoustic guitar. Unfortunately Lucy was feeling quiet today, so no meows are featured.

lofi chicken 1-06-25 (Jamuary 2025 Day 6)

I Wonder 1-08-25 (Jamuary 2025 Day 8)

When nights are short and days are long
I sit and write a guitar song
But every chord feels out of place
A melody I can’t embrace

The daylight fades, my thoughts unwind
A coffee cup, a cluttered page
The same four chords, the same old cage

With fingers slow, I’ll play the tune
And hope the spark comes back by noon
But in this haze, the song still breathes, 
A quiet muse among the leaves

But I can’t hear it rustling
With heavy head I breathe a sigh
As I look up to kiss the sky

The path I take is overgrown
With tangled leaves and roots unknown
I wonder if I'll lose my way
But something tells me I’m okay

The winds may whisper, soft and cold
And in the quiet, I will know
The silence speaks, and lets me go


Some days it’s hard, the well runs dry
But even clouds can paint the sky
A quiet hand still plucks the strings
And hopes to hear what morning brings

The strings hum low, and carry on
And even when the muse is gone
I’ll sit here and I’ll write my song

Jebsimusic

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