Someone please wake this greaser and show him the door while he can still walk.
[INTRO]
He types by moonlight from a padded chair
A king whose crown is thinning hair
The nation hums in idle loops
While he nods off in briefing groups
[VERSE 1]
[G] The sunrise hits, he’s [D] still online
[Em] Throwing shade at [C] half-past nine
[G] Coffee cold, his [D] fury hot
[C] Missed the memo—but [D] tweets a lot
[G] He rules the roost in [D] flannel robes
[Em] Dodging fires in [C] spinning globes
[G] The lights are dim, the [D] pressure steep
[C] Still we salute… [D] Commander-In-Sleep
[VERSE 2]
[G] Once mocked the ones who’d [D] drift and doze
[Em] Now drools through half his [C] morning shows
[G] His cabinet talks like [D] he’s not there
[C] They shuffle memos [D] through the air
[G] He dreams of ratings, [D] ticker tape
[Em] While aides rehearse the [C] next red tape
[G] The country crawls through [D] promises cheap
[C] All tucked in by… [D] Commander-In-Sleep
[VERSE 3]
[G] The midnight glow of [D] tablet screens
[Em] Reflects his face in [C] static beams
[G] He scrolls through threats and [D] loaded polls
[C] Then slumps beneath the [D] comment scrolls
[G] The eagle stalls mid-[D] circling flight
[Em] While he adjusts the [C] screen’s blue light
[G] His wars are waged in [D] talk-show leaps
[C] By soundbite king… [D] Commander-In-Sleep
[BRIDGE]
[Em] His eyes half-lidded, [C] thumbs still race
[G] Through filtered lies and [D] fall from grace
[Em] But dreams don’t last, and [C] faith runs deep
[D] Not deep enough for… Commander-In-Sleep
[OUTRO]
[G] So wave the flag, then [D] wave goodbye
[Em] The ship runs still, the [C] tide runs high
[G] He drifts while truths and [D] taxes creep
[C] Goodnight, dear old… [D] Commander-In-Sleep
Gene Scott grew up on a tenant farm in Sheffield, Illinois, where strip mines swallowed the prairie and Euclid trucks hauled coal past the kitchen window. His father welded for International Harvester winters and pulled hogs from collapsed mine shafts. His mother drove a hundred miles round-trip to Bradley University three days a week, graduated with honors, and never let them miss a meal. Scott earned degrees from Illinois and Tennessee, married Lana Ferguson on her family’s front porch in Hancock County—the oldest residence in the county, where her Confederate ancestor is buried at the edge of the woods—and raised a son in the Appalachian foothills. His writing draws on Midwestern magical realism, generational memory, and the stories told around oak kitchen tables where stoker men and snake women once drank coffee.
Gene Scott
Gene Scott grew up on an Illinois tenant farm where kitchen-table tales mixed magic with hog farms and strip mines. After 40 years in East Tennessee, he’s witnessed nature’s raw power—and its quiet grace to heal what’s broken.
Commander-in-Sleep
The Foolish Drooler Declares Your Grocery Bill a Hoax …
We keep electing grandpas who should be fishing or golfing, their caddies dropping balls next to the pins.
But what do we have instead?
Briefings slept through.
Aides running the show.
A brain-paralyzed figurehead squinting at the teleprompter, head nodding.
Phil Ochs wrote “I Ain’t Marching Anymore” at twenty-four. Woody slapped “This Machine Kills Fascists” on his guitar and meant it.
Someone please wake this greaser and show him the door while he can still walk.
[INTRO]
He types by moonlight from a padded chair
A king whose crown is thinning hair
The nation hums in idle loops
While he nods off in briefing groups
[VERSE 1]
[G] The sunrise hits, he’s [D] still online
[Em] Throwing shade at [C] half-past nine
[G] Coffee cold, his [D] fury hot
[C] Missed the memo—but [D] tweets a lot
[G] He rules the roost in [D] flannel robes
[Em] Dodging fires in [C] spinning globes
[G] The lights are dim, the [D] pressure steep
[C] Still we salute… [D] Commander-In-Sleep
[VERSE 2]
[G] Once mocked the ones who’d [D] drift and doze
[Em] Now drools through half his [C] morning shows
[G] His cabinet talks like [D] he’s not there
[C] They shuffle memos [D] through the air
[G] He dreams of ratings, [D] ticker tape
[Em] While aides rehearse the [C] next red tape
[G] The country crawls through [D] promises cheap
[C] All tucked in by… [D] Commander-In-Sleep
[VERSE 3]
[G] The midnight glow of [D] tablet screens
[Em] Reflects his face in [C] static beams
[G] He scrolls through threats and [D] loaded polls
[C] Then slumps beneath the [D] comment scrolls
[G] The eagle stalls mid-[D] circling flight
[Em] While he adjusts the [C] screen’s blue light
[G] His wars are waged in [D] talk-show leaps
[C] By soundbite king… [D] Commander-In-Sleep
[BRIDGE]
[Em] His eyes half-lidded, [C] thumbs still race
[G] Through filtered lies and [D] fall from grace
[Em] But dreams don’t last, and [C] faith runs deep
[D] Not deep enough for… Commander-In-Sleep
[OUTRO]
[G] So wave the flag, then [D] wave goodbye
[Em] The ship runs still, the [C] tide runs high
[G] He drifts while truths and [D] taxes creep
[C] Goodnight, dear old… [D] Commander-In-Sleep
Gene Scott grew up on a tenant farm in Sheffield, Illinois, where strip mines swallowed the prairie and Euclid trucks hauled coal past the kitchen window. His father welded for International Harvester winters and pulled hogs from collapsed mine shafts. His mother drove a hundred miles round-trip to Bradley University three days a week, graduated with honors, and never let them miss a meal. Scott earned degrees from Illinois and Tennessee, married Lana Ferguson on her family’s front porch in Hancock County—the oldest residence in the county, where her Confederate ancestor is buried at the edge of the woods—and raised a son in the Appalachian foothills. His writing draws on Midwestern magical realism, generational memory, and the stories told around oak kitchen tables where stoker men and snake women once drank coffee.
Gene Scott