Just ‘cos you’re to blame doesn’t mean you’re guilty. Just ‘cos it’s not your fault doesn’t mean you’re innocent. Just ‘cos you’ve got money doesn’t mean you’re worth a penny. Just ‘cos they said it well doesn’t mean they said what they meant.
Just ‘cos you’ve got time doesn’t mean it won’t run out. Just ‘cos the fun’s over doesn’t mean you can’t have a laugh. Just ‘cos you’ve got a ticket doesn’t mean you’re a ticket tout. Just ‘cos you’ve had a life doesn’t mean you’ll have an epitaph.
Just ‘cos you’re a pirate D.J. on a sea-breeze table-turning your flat-world vinyl sea-shanties doesn’t mean a whale of a man will get any more noticed than a minnow of a bloke through a back-to-front telescope.
Just ‘cos you beg doesn’t mean you walk the streets. Just ‘cos you’ve got a good grip on things doesn’t mean you could hold a trapeze. Just ‘cos you’re on a bus doesn’t mean you have the right to a seat. Just ‘cos life is routine doesn’t mean you do it with ease.
In case you’re wondering, the chorus to this kiddies’ sing-song Is sink or swim, trick or treat, ding or dong, so sing along!; “Keep your head above water. Keep your head down. Get it right or you’ll drown.”
Song ‘Just cos (it’s a Devon song)’ by Chicco Fresu (guitar) and me (vocals/drums)
John Di Girolamo was born during the swinging middle ages as the Battle of Hastings raged outside on a cold, miserable Saturday evening just outside 'The Juggler's Arms' in Oxford, Torquay and Exeter at the same time. Born to a family, he spent most of his early years learning how to open umbrellas for a rainy day, and the runnings of horses and sword swallowers and the costs they incurred. Having graduated in 'Circus Management', he took to spinning plates for a living and persuaded his father to buy a restaurant to fund what he believed would be a lucrative career move. However, in the the days leading to The Age of Post Punk', he quit and would embark upon what was to go down in history doodles as a notebook.
Few knew it then but he had already started copying poetry, and often written by other people. As the minutes passed by, and Sardinia loomed, the idea of collages and drawings suddenly hit him as a way of filling up what had become a kind of book with pages and all. One day while storming off in a huff because his mum told him to, he struck upon the idea of putting it all together over a long-playing record (later a CD) and during a commercial break in the digital age, decided a blog would end Cromwell's ill-fated republic.
Sent off by recorded post, it would be by chance that his poems would get to their ultimate destination as, meanwhile, his pigeon who had queued so loyally for so long, sadly died the day before it was sacked.
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