Plog arrow PBrain arrow More Peas Less Brains arrow Set out to noodle in A 
I get up each morning, gather my wits.
	Pick up the paper, read the obits.
If I'm not there I know I'm not dead.
	So I eat a good breakfast and go back to bed.
Set out to noodle in A
I was noodling with an alternate tuning on my geetar, and ended up with something vaguely similar to Gentle on My Mind, by John Hartman. Some of the lines in the song are killer.

I like Dino's semi-drunken out-of-breath-smokin', lookin like a Thunderbirds marionette take on it, in a flat (or sharp) key.... with a little extra banter "Any WA-A-AY" -fake laugh.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mq9iPte8UOY

Then I realised the song is also very similar to Snowbird by Anne Murray ( without the brass stabs )

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c2VYP0FCAUE

What is she hanging onto?

The Glen Campbell version with songwriter John Hartman (Daniel Craig of country) on banjo

The original transcript http://www.johnhartford.com/gentle.cfm

The Lyric

It's knowin' that your door is always open and that your path is free to walk
That makes me tend to leave my sleeping bag rolled up and stashed behind your couch
And It's knowin' I'm not shackled by forgotten words & bonds and the ink stains that have dried upon some line
That keeps you in the back roads by the rivers of my memory & keeps you ever gentle on my mind

It's not clinging to the rocks and ivy planted on their columns now that bind me
Or something that somebody said because they thought we'd fit together walking
It's just knowing that the world will not be cursin' or forgiving when I walk along some railroad track and find
That you're moving on the back roads by the rivers of my memory and for hours you're just gentle on my mind

Though the wheat fields and the clothes lines and the junk yards and the highways come between us
And some other woman's cryin' to her mother 'cause she turned and I was gone
I still might run in silence tears of joy might stain my face and a summer sun might burn me 'till I'm blind
But not to where I cannot see you walking on the back roads by the rivers flowing gentle on my mind

I dip my cup of soup back from a gurgling, crackling cauldron in some train yard
My beard a roughn'ning coal pile and a dirty hat pulled low across my face
Through cupped hands around the tin cans I pretend to hold you to my breast and find
That you're wavin' from the back roads by the rivers of my memory ever smiling ever gentle on my mind
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Someday man should learn how to enjoy liberty without license, nourishment without gluttony, and pleasure without debauchery. Self-control is a better human policy of behavior regulation than is extreme self-denial.

My jokes are so lame I shot my horse.