This is my BatPage. It contains all the songs, poetry and selected prose whitterings I'm willing to admit to having written. The stuff falls into four types and three domains.
The types are songs, poetry, prose and filk; that last may need some explaining: suffice to say that my definition of filk is "songs to the tune of other songs". That's not the common definition of filk, which is more like songs written by geeks of one type or another, but I'm with Humpty on the topic of words meaning what I say they mean.
The domains are SCAdian, choral and general. I've been a member of the SCA since 1992 and was active in university choirs from 1995 to 2003, so that's those ones; the general domain is anything else, and is generally a little bit of politics, a far bit of geeky stuff and some general piffle.
This is all my work, entirely so unless otherwise co-authored. You can sing, recite or yodel them to your heart's content provided you don't misrepresent them as your own work. Sooner or later I'll get around to finding a Creative Commons license I like, but until then I think the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation put it best: share and enjoy!
Choral filk, like it says on the box. Coming in cold, it might be helpful to know this essential truth about the nature of relationships in a choir:
Altos like basses.
Bases like altos.
Tenors like tenors.
One soprano bonks the conductor, and the rest pick up at the disco.
That should be enough, I think.
It's true! They are! When Tania posted a message on Choral Chat with the subject "Morning Sickness Sux", I wrote this.
[May 2002]
All my friends are getting pregnant
Yes, they're all having sprogs
They're all getting round and ungainly
They no longer fit their togs.
Well I peeked at Choral Chat the other day
And I read the now-familiar news
It said, "Morning sickness is a horrid thing"
It said, "I've been wakin' up with the spews"
I begged her, say it isn't true
And she told me it was so, and she was glad
Showed me a CAT scan of her groin
And I thought, "My God, it looks just like its Dad"
(Chorus)
Sometimes I feel like I'm left behind
And sometimes I feel like I just left school
Wonder if I'll ever grow up...
I hope not! I'm no breeding fool!
(Chorus)
But I'm all caught up being flighty
And I'm all caught up having sex
So I'm all stocked with good condoms
No way I'll ever be the next...
(Chorus)
This is, in a sense, inspired by every alto I've ever met, but I can pretty much tell you who's the inspiration for each line. I'm not going to tell you, but I could, if I were suicidally insane. It's to the tune of Billy Joel's Always A Woman, and was triggered when Ch@s mentioned the vague idea, and possibly the line that starts "She'll sing what she's given".
[August 2002]
She can kill with a song,
She can wound with the blues,
She can tread on your heart with her sensible shoes,
And she'll often reveal what you're hoping to see
(Once she's had a few drinks)
Yes, she's always an alto to me.
She can leave you appalled,
She can frankly dismay you.
She can take all your shirts
And she'll never repay you.
But she looks so much better in my clothes than me...
Blame it all on the pitch,
'Cos she's always an alto to me.
Oh, she can scare you at times
She can do you some harm
She's a woman of whim
Oh, and she never forgives
And she never forgets
Till the stars have grown dim
She can study the score
And perfect every note,
Or she'll simply ignore it
And wing it, by rote.
She'll sing what she's given (as long as it's G);
'Though she mimes in the concert,
She's always an alto to me.
(Chorus)
She is frequently smart
And she's often well-dressed,
But the basses don't notice
Much more than her chest.
Yet she's rarely attracted
To tenors, we see...
And that rumble we do
Simply turns her to goo,
'Cos she's always an alto to me.
Though some people may say
This is all a cliche,
Still she's always an alto to me.
This was a rush job written by committee, as all good filks are. Mark Chapman, Cathy Vallance and I wrote it at the SCUNA rehearsal camp. It later won me the revue at a SUMS camp; the judges begged for other entries in the revue, because they really didn't want to have to award the prize to me! (Tenors, the lot of them!) It's to the tune of And The Band Played Waltzing Matilda, by Eric Bogle.
[29 July 1995]
Now if I were a tenor, I'd carry the tune, and I'd flirt with the thin boy beside me.
And the altos would tell me I'm as queer as a loon, but I don't care if those tarts deride me!
Then at concerts I'd shine as I got in the swing: the crowds would go mad as I started to sing,
And the women would swoon and their hearts would go ping, but I'd rather their sons paid attention...
But a bass sings low and profoundly,
Where the tenor must wish he could be,
And his voice is so deep, it can put bricks to sleep.
Oh a bass is the true life for me.
And how well I imagine the life of a sop, as I'd twitter and squeak and read Cosmo.
And how in that rarified air at the top, I could have any man in the disco.
Many sops are brunetty; they've dyed their hair well. They colour it chestnut and drown it with gel.
But they're blonde to the brainstem, you can bloody well tell! The attempt's nearly always a failure.
But a bass sings low and profoundly,
And his thoughts are as deep as the sea.
But a sop's not as smart as a good shopping cart.
Oh a bass is the true life for me.
And if I were an alto, my life would be odd, as the oestrogen bubbled inside me.
And I'd watch the old basses, all hoping to God for a chance to corrupt and misguide me.
And the altos sing coyly: the crowd howls for more. Their talents are striking; they all know the score.
The sopranos all ask, "What are we singing for?" And I ask myself the same question...
But a bass sings low and profoundly,
And we do like an alto or three.
For as beer follows beer, more taboos disappear.
Oh a bass is the true life for me.
Sing me the bass line, sing me the bass line.
Who'll come on down to the bass line with me?
And our notes are absurd, and we show up on a seismograph.
Who'll come on down to the bass line with me?
This had been bouncing around in my head since I first heard the BloodHoundGang's Bad Touch, and finally I just sat down with the lyrics and an MP3 of the original and did most of it. I posted it to choral chat and a gorgeous and talented MUC named Gail Miller provided the rest. What a team!
[14 September 2000]
Ha ha ha, well, now, we call this the act of Rumbling, but there are several other very important differences between Human Beings and choristers that you should know about....
I'd appreciate unison...
Sing, fellas, sing, you know choir is a lot of work
Me and you, we can sing down deep and make the women go berserk
We're not in time, our words don't rhyme, and I'll bet you don't care
Yes we're singing, we're rehearsing, but it's not why we go there
We've had enough of the night-club stuff it's all too tough to do the rounds
We'd all much rather go much farther making bassy rumble sounds
It's easier to score and it isn't a bore attracting altos any time we like
And make them crumble with our rumble we don't even need a mike.
Sing it now
You and me fellas ain't nothin' but basses
So let's meet a lot of altos and not notice their faces
Do it again now
You and me fellas ain't nothin' but basses
So let's hope that they're not underage and still wearin' braces.
Gunna rumble now...
Deep, the sounds which cause the altos to fall over
In the large cathedrals of Melbourne, Sydney, Adelaide and others
Latin verses, conductor curses, We wanna get down below your knees,
Altos get this feeling, they are dealing with their reeling, caused by this Bassy tease
So if we sing low, really slow, and flow, please say we made your tummy dip
We'll turn you on before you know it, and you'll quiver your top lip
So sing me yours, I'll sing you mine, and we will harmonise in time
And eventually we'll have it, just in time for our bit...
Sing it now
You and me fellas ain't nothin' but basses
We like any kind of altos, any sizes and races
Really do
You and me fellas ain't nothin' but basses
If they seem too highly strung we'll maybe loosen their laces
Gunna rumble now...
Do it now
You and me fellas ain't nothin' but basses
So we just don't believe sopranos telling us we're disgraces
And again now
You and me fellas ain't nothin' but basses
But if the sops are cute it might be beaut to get on their cases
Ad nauseum...
While I was in SUMS, we got given the possibly-enviable task of bulking out the Sydney Phil for the Olympic Games opening ceremony. The ceremony itself was magnificent, and one of the great experiences of my life, but the preparation was handled with almost breathtaking incompetence by organisers who couldn't arrange a boont in a brothel. Ric Birch, now thankfully forgotten by history, was the Chief Wally in charge of the ceremony. This is to the tune of Jerusalem. For the aftermath, see the Post-Olympic Anthem.
[August 2000]
And did Ric Birch, in ancient times,
Think it would a piece of cake
To get ten thousand volunteers
To suffer all for SOCOG's sake
And did he hope we'd proudly wear
Beige ponchos and ill-fitting hat
And sit in patience, endlessly,
And not to tell him he's a prat.
Bring me my mat of close-cell foam
Bring me my brooch that breaks on sight
Shove me around then send me home
To miss the last bus for the night
I will not miss a single call,
I shall not whinge, through wind and rain
For after all, I volunteered
Has anybody seen my brain?
Baron Sir Bennett W MacPherson OBE QED RSVP is Conductor-For-Life of the Sydney Uni Musical Society, and has been since that choir's creation in 1469. He is a man of nigh-superhuman talent and charisma, and only the greatest of conductors in all history can begin to compare to him. He also has excellent facial hair. This is about him. It's to the tune of Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.
[February 2002]
You better watch close,
You better not chat
You better keep time
I'm telling you that:
Bruckner Ben is leading the choir
He's checking the rolls
And counting the names
He's thoroughly wise
To all of your games -
Bruckner Ben is leading the choir
He sees you when you're sleeping,
He hears when your voice breaks
He knows if you sing F or P,
So sing out, for Bruckner's sake!
You better not joke,
You better not snore,
You better take notes
And follow the score
Bruckner Ben is leading the choir
As performed by Eric T. F. Bat, Mistress Cath Lawrence and Woody at Hobart's 50IV, June/July 1999. This came to me during the IV camp, and I sort of fiddled around with it like a loose tooth, until I suddenly found the chorus lurking on a previously blank piece of paper, and after that it was all easy. In fact, it took longer to decide on Bernstein (in the last line of verse 1) than it did to write all the rest of the song. The result, aided amply by Mistress Cath on vocals and Woody on piano, was astonishing: I have a photo, courtesy of Jon the Prevert, of Foetus rupturing himself (must've been the chorus) and Kynan just looked dazed. We won the Revue trophy: an ugly thing. I got it engraved with our names and passed it on to the next winners in the fullness of time.
[June 1999]
Sound Control to Kynan Johns...
Sound Control to Kynan Johns...
Tie your bow tie up and put your trousers on.
Sound Control to Kynan Johns...
Commencing concert; tape deck on.
Flex your baton and may Bernstein be with you...
(A-one, a-two, a-one-two-three-four...)
This is Sound Control to Kynan Johns
You've really pulled a crowd
And the tenors want to know who cuts your hair
Now it's time to cue the basses if you dare
This is Kynan Johns to Sound Control
I'm raging through the score
And I'm bouncing in a most peculiar way
And the choir sounds quite professional today
And here am I, wanking in the spotlight
Far above my peers
Planet Earth can see
There's no prodigy like me...
Though I know one hundred thousand moves
I'm feeling very still
And I doubt this chorus knows which way to go
Tell the sops to sing fortissimo - they know
Sound Control to Kynan Johns
It's interval - the choir is gone
Can you hear me Kynan Johns?
Can you hear me Kynan Johns?
Can you hear me Kynan Johns?
Can you --
Here am I, wanking in the spotlight
Far above my peers
Planet Earth can see
There's no prodigy like me...
Many years ago, I went to the largely tolerable Adelaide Intervarsity Choral Festival. While I was there, I wrote a three-scene Gilbert and Sullivan opera for the Revue (you have no idea how dull Adelaide can be...) but owing to criminal incompetence on the part of the compere, who should have been nasally raped to death by nuns, we didn't get to perform it. I have no idea of the tunes, but I think it has its own charm regardless.
[January 2001]
or, The Lass Who Loved A Geek
by Fruitbert and Sullivan
Scene 1: Harris's Great Brains Incorporated, in an unnamed Australian metropolis in the late 21st century
Scene 2: The Broken Hill University during their Intervarsity Choral Festival
Scene 3: The Hall of the Great Brain, back at HGB Inc.
Nick Nitely – an earnest young man
Dora Daley – a sweet young alto, allegedly
Sebastian Harris – an aged computer wizard with a dark family secret
Amethyst Howard-Gration – a dear little old lady
The Great Brain – a computer of unimaginable complexity
Special Guest Star #1 – an IVCF Convenor, roped in for a guest appearance
Chorus of freshers & BOFs
Enter NICK NITELY and CHORUS.
Nick:
I am a poor apprentice geek,
I toil for my wages,
I hunt for bugs in cryptic code,
on electronic pages.
I see no morning summer sun,
or evening's autumn breezes
I do my master's bidding and
whatever else he pleases.
Chorus:
He does his master's bidding and
whatever else he pleases!
Nick:
It might have been, in ancient times,
that men controlled machinery,
And got a chance, on odd weekends,
to view the local scenery.
But now the great automatons
are large and hard to master.
We need to watch attentively,
for fear we'll meet disaster.
Chorus:
He needs to watch attentively,
for fear he'll meet disaster!
He needs to watch attentively,
for fear he'll meet disaster!
He needs to watch attentively,
for fear he'll meet disaster!
Nick: [spoken]
Here we are in the depths of the late 21st century, and yet man is still enslaved to the computer! Must I toil forever, guarding these complex-yet-error-prone machines? Oh, if only I could get out and see the world. Surely there must be a better life for me out there -- but hark! Here comes my master, the wise, crusty old Dr Sebastian Harris.
Enter SEBASTIAN HARRIS.
Seb: [spoken]
Ah, Nick Nitely, my faithful apprentice. Debugging studiously, I see? Excellent! I have a new task for you, dear boy! Pay heed, for this could be the leg-up your career has been looking for!
Seb:
When I was a babe, quite long ago,
My parents earnt a name
As the most depraved debauchers in
A most debaucherous game!
They lived in a town on the desert edge
The land of wind and fire
And they practised sinful naughtiness
In a strange and sinful choir!
Chorus:
They practised sinful naughtiness
In a strange and sinful choir!
Seb:
But I was a good and moral child,
So I soon renounced my kin
And I ran away to Geeking School
To avoid all thoughts of sin.
Chorus:
He ran away to Geeking School
To avoid all thoughts of sin.
Seb:
But here in my hand you'll see a note
I have just this day been sent:
My departed parent's friends have need
Of the power we represent.
Chorus:
His departed parent's friends have need
Of the powers they represent.
His departed parent's friends have need
Of the Brains they implement!
Nick: [spoken]
Goodness, Dr Harris! Your parents were depraved sexual athletes? But you yourself are such a conservative and moral man!
Seb:
Indeed!
Nick:
Quite boring, in fact!
Seb:
And proudly so! I thank you for your kind words. But this is all by the by. It is true I ran away to the Ronald Macdonald Sydney University to become a geek, but I cannot turn my back on my parents' compatriots and occasional sextoys in their hour of need! Blood is thicker than silicon, Nick my lad!
Nick:
How true, how true, Dr Harris! But if you'll forgive my confusion, sir -- in all this intrigue and innuendo, where do I come in?
Seb:
Why you, Nick, are to be the instrument by which I shall discharge this obligation to my elders. I want you to go in my name!
Nick:
Go, Doctor? (Aside: could this be my chance to see the outside world after so long?) Where am I to go?
Seb:
You, my boy, shall go on a mission of mercy, to apply the mighty computer power of the Great Brain itself to rescue the tragically flawed Transport and Billeting for the 118th Intervarsity Choral Festival in the University of Broken Hill!
END OF SCENE 1
Enter CHORUS
Chorus:
IV! IV! The year has passed so speedily!
IV! IV! A fortnight of debauchery!
The sogball is inflated and
The music is collated and
[Male C.] Their bras are confiscated-
[Fem. C.] Oh, you've seen it all before!
IV! IV! Australia's great tradition of
[Fresher C.] The old!
[BOF C.] The young!
[Fresher C.] It's like that book by Nabukov!
[All C.] We don't know why we do all this
The reason's lost in history's mist
[Fresher C.] Well I'm just here to sink some piss
[BOF C.] And I'm just here to score!
Nick:
IV! IV! Oh what an unexpected place!
The sights! The sounds! The pianist who's off her face!
I never dreamed the world could be
So strangely full of revelry
And oddly coloured Daiquiris
[Spoken] I'd like to see some more
Enter AMETHYST HOWARD-GRATION.
Amethyst: [spoken]
Oh, you must be young Nick Nitely, sent to us by Harris's Great Brains Incorporated in our hour of need. And just in time. The Transport and Billeting is in a terrible state. My daughter is beside herself.
Nick:
Your daughter, Ma'am?
Amethyst:
My ward, in fact, but I think of her as my daughter, although I never married. I am Miss Howard Gration, but you may call me Amethyst.
Nick:
It's an honour, kind lady.
Amethyst:
(Aside: what a polite boy!) Ah! Here's my daughter now. Nick Nitely of Harris's Great Brains, may I introduce Dora Daley of the Broken Hill University Musical Society.
Nick: [smitten]
Enchanted!
Dora: [interested]
(Aside: Hmm! New meat!) Let me explain our problem in yet another witty piece of tuneful exposition.
Nick:
Please do!
Dora:
The Choral Intervarsity's an old and mighty beast,
With a million odd traditions all in play
And the worst of these traditions (in the bottom five at least)
Is that T&B must always go astray.
We've a diabetic vegan with a recent broken leg
Who would like a party household with a cat,
And a crusty bass from Hobart who we've almost had to beg
Not to wander round in nothing but a hat.
These a billetor who's written that he'll only billet girls
On the theory that the men would only fight,
And another has a mansion, with a spa of gold and pearls,
But it's hours away at twice the speed of light.
We've a thousand people coming, cos IV has really grown,
And it's up to me to tell them where to sleep.
Some require special diets, others need a chaperone,
And I'm ready now to chuck it in and weep!
[Breaks down and weeps on Nick's shoulder, quite transparently]
Nick: [quite moved]
There there... I shall help you. We shall enlist the help of the Great Brain!
Enter NICK and DORA.
Nick:
My darling Dora, see
The metal mystery:
The great machine that we
Call The Brain.
Dora:
My handsome Nick, it's true:
It's patently a coup
This silicon lump you
Call The Brain.
Brain: [Spoken]
Welcome to Main Brain! Think different! Enter sixty seven digit password! Apple (tm) Macintosh (tm) OS-X (tm) Beta version 0.9999994 ready. Note from company CEO: version 1.0 will be debugged any day now! Please wait! Press any key to reboot! Redo from start!
Dora:
Goodness! What is it saying?
Nick:
Oh, this is just standard gibberish. It's normal enough. It all started in the early 21st century when the Justice Department disbanded Microsoft for war crimes and mental anguish. The damage to the economy was so great that Apple Computer moved in and took over the country. Now all the computers sound like this. But that's not important right now. Give me the T&B information. [Dora hands pile of forms to Nick] I'll just feed them into the brain [Nick feeds them into the Brain.] Now I move the gerbil...
Dora:
Gerbil?
Nick:
Yes - IBM patented the word "mouse" in 2017. [Brain goes whir] There we go! The answer should be almost instantaneous!
Brain:
I have cogitated long upon your question...
And considered all the issues on my charts...
And my positronic brain makes this suggestion:
Take the cash and make a break for foreign parts!
Dora:
What?
Nick:
Surely you can't be serious!
Brain:
I have cogitated long upon your question...
Nick: [interrupts]
Yes, yes, yes, I know. But surely there must be a better solution than "take the money and run"!
Dora:
I don't know... it sounds pretty good...
Brain:
If you weigh up all the multiplying factors,
It is clear there is no answer to be found.
You can try it but you'll simply end up cactus,
Or perhaps you'll wind up six feet underground!
Nick:
Oh, I don't believe it!
Dora:
Are you sure? It sounds pretty definitive!
Brain:
If you weigh up all the multiplying factors...
Nick: [interrupts]
Oh don't be silly! It can't be that hard to organise an IV's transport and billeting! Why, I hear back in the early 21st century, some real goofballs made it work!
Brain:
That was only one year...
Nick:
Never mind! I don't think you're much of a great brain. In fact, I don't think you're a brain at all!
Brain:
Pay no attention to the secret special guest star behind the curtain! Noooooo! [winds down] Daisy... daisy...
[Opens door to Great Brain to reveal Secret Guest Star #1]
SGS#1:
All right, I admit it! It was me all the time! Your IV is doomed! There was only one perfect IV, and it was mine!
Nick:
Well, that makes sense to me!
Dora:
I'll get the money, you book the flights. South of France?
Nick:
South of France!
CURTAIN
Once I'd moved back home to Canberra I volunteered to be on committee for the 54th Australian Intervarsity Choral Festival, aka CIV2003. Just in time for SIV2002, Lukey and I composed this to advertise our IV in the Revue.
[January 2002]
It used to be, years ago, that SCUNA's rehearsal camps served omnivore meals. This comes as a shock to recent SCUNAe, because we've been doing only vegetarian catering for as long as most of them can recall. The reasons are obvious -- there's less waste, it costs less, it's easier to produce really good quality food, and so on -- but as I recall the turning point came with a particularly inedible bolognaise. This song is a dramatisation of that. It's to the tune of the Boomtown Rats' I Don't Like Mondays.
[July 2002]
The bolognaise mix inside the pot
Has burnt, and turned to paste
Oh, and nobody's gonna have stew today
All that okra goes to waste.
The choir doesn't understand it
We always heard there was food supplied,
But now the soup's so greasy
Makes our guts uneasy
Did the salad really need to be fried?
Why? Why - why - why?
Tell you why I don't like camp food
Tell you why I don't like camp food
Tell you why I don't like camp food
I wanna spew, ooh -- and eat at home.
The coffee machine has turned dark green
And it blurps when it's not plugged in
All the breakfast eggs'll cause a grown man to beg
And the bacon's turning hard as tin
The hot dog buns are the kind of ones
That have spent six weeks in the rain and sun
And you can find no sauces
'Cause there are no sauces
What sauce could hide the scum?
I tried very hard to write a successful filk song for the Canberra IV revue, but somehow the filk of The Devil Went Down To Georgia (entitled The Tenor Went Down To Canberra) just never worked. But in the mean time I dashed this one off, and created (or at least recognised) a legend! I imagine the tune is obvious.
[June 1996]
And did that phone, at concert time, ring like a budgie, loud and long?
And did that boy commit the crime, and leave his mobile phone switched on?
It did not cease from shrill alarm, but caused the very greatest harm,
Because it proved, for all to see, the basses were a tone off key!
Bring me my hair of faded gold, bring me my Tim Brooke-Taylor smile,
Bring me my car - it may be old, bring me my chariot for hire!
He's such a sweet and lovely boy, he's such a cute and cuddly toy,
And we all love our Woodykins, despite his multitude of sins.
Composed to the tune of Frere Jacques, as an anthem for the Bassi of SCUNA.
[Early 2002]
I'm an old fart (x2)
SCUNA Bass (x2)
I'm a million years old (x2)
See my face (x2)
All these freshers (x2)
Make us mourn (x2)
Back when we were freshers (x2)
They weren't born! (x2)
We are full of (x2)
Brains and strength (x2)
We know all the answers (x2)
At great length (x2)
I'm an old fart (x2)
SCUNA Bass (x2)
I'm a million years old (x2)
See my face (x2)
Once upon a time there was a party called BangFest, which was a legend. The precise nature of what transpired at that part will not be revealed unto ye knowlessmen. Suffice it to say Nothing Happened. This is about that. It's to the tune of Cutty Wren. Note that the people who are being interrogated and answering questions in the song are some of those who attended; the remainder are SCUNAe who did not.
[July 1996]
"Where are you going?" said Woodgate to Fruitbat.
"We can not tell you," said Seagoon to Snert.
"We're off to the BangFest," said Jon the Prevert,
"We're off to the Bangfest," said Jon the Prevert.
"What will you do there?" said Dervish to MikZ.
"We can not tell you," said Tania to Snert.
"We'll get well acquainted," said Jon the Prevert,
"We'll get well acquainted," said Jon the Prevert.
"Who'll get it started?" said Brick to Fiona.
"We can not tell you," said Claret to Snert.
"Some tipsy librarian," said Jon the Prevert,
"Some tipsy librarian," said Jon the Prevert.
"Who will entice her?" said Jeffery to Jamesy.
"We can not tell you," said Chapstick to Snert.
"It's hard to remember," said Jon the Prevert,
"It's hard to remember," said Jon the Prevert.
"And what will the rest do?" said Sandra to Cameron.
"We can not tell you," said Kate unto Snert.
"We'll show off our piercings," said Jon the Prevert,
"We'll show off our piercings," said Jon the Prevert.
"What does this all mean?" said Chat-List to Net-List.
"Buggered if I know," said you there to me.
"I fancy a party, let's all go to IV!
"I fancy a party, let's go to IV!"
Continuing the tradition I started with Jerusawoody, of recognising choral legends in song, I filked They Might Be Giants' Birdhouse In Your Soul about the redoubtable and respectable Mr Jeff Christensen, who for many years has been the chronicler of all this choral and intervarsity through his Acts Of The Choristers.
[January 1997]
He's the oldest bass
He's not the boldest bass
But he's a very stately bass
But really he's not quite the oldest bass
But he is...
Mister Jeff is wearing tails and a black beard
He watches over you
Write a little footnote in your book.
He can be serene when he's sloggin',
He can be stately on a toboggan,
Write a little footnote in your book...
While you're at it,
Leave your white gloves on and
Read us an Act from your book.
The Fabulous Monster was disturbed that our blissful and carefree life together was not providing the sort of artistic inspiration that a poet needs. She suggested I write some more songs. Not long after, I watched Muriel's Wedding for the first time, and ABBA's Fernando struck her as eminently filkworthy. Seeking intellectual stimulation at a SUMS rehearsal camp later that weekend, I grabbed some paper and composed this, which won the revue and the eternal wrath of a quarter of the choir.
[September 1999]
Can you hear the pitch, sopranos?
I remember songs of whales that sound an awful lot like this.
The conductor frowns, sopranos.
He was humming to himself and softly praying you would hear.
I could see his waving hands
And plumes of boiling steam were coming from his ears.
There's a tempo change, sopranos.
Every quaver, every minim seems to drag appallingly.
I was so alarmed, sopranos.
You were loud and full of coffee, none of you are very shy,
And I'm not ashamed to say
The end of Floret Silva almost made me cry
There are markings in the score, you know;
They're not for show, sopranos.
They were put in there for you and me,
M, F and P, sopranos.
If you never thought this work was hard,
You lost the bet.
Now you have to sing it all again
From start to end, sopranos.
No it isn't fair, sopranos,
That for many years you haven't had a song that was rude.
Is it all deserved, sopranos?
Have you wondered at the reason for this frightful attitude?
You can guess it if you try --
It's cause "soprano" has three syllables, not two!
(Testing:)
Can you hear the pitch, -- tenors? (Nope, doesn't work.)
Can you hear the pitch, -- basses? (Naah.)
(And I'm too scared of altos, so...)
There are markings in the score, you know;
They're not for show, sopranos.
They were put in there for you and me,
M, F and P, sopranos.
If you think you might be driven mad,
Don't give in yet.
'Cause there's someone else who's twice as pissed:
The soloist soprano!
There's an obscure little song in the SCUNA songbook called Now Oh Now, and we were practicing it one time when this modified version came to me. Basso Ergo Drool.
[Early 2002]
Now, oh fuck I needs must fart
Farting for on beans I dined
Farting is an ancient art,
Unlike others much maligned.
Since I ate I must expell
Gas that forms when I digest.
Please forgive the nasty smell --
Beans from Woolworths aren't the best.
Flatulence will drive you hence,
Loud your curses rent the air
Take, I pray you, no offense;
Wrath from you I could not bear!
In the tradition started with Jerusawoody and continued with Mister Jeff, I decided to commemorate Michael Winikoff, known for his piano-improvising talent as "God". The tune is Billy Joel's Piano Man.
[June 1999]
It's half past nine on a chilly day
The chorister crowd straggles in
There's an old bass snoring next to me
With his head down and drool on his chin.
He says, "God, what a way to spend holidays!
"I'm not really sure why I go.
"If it weren't for the man with the magical hands
"Every bass would be lost in the snow."
So play us a tune, Dr Winikoff
Tickle that ivory.
You were exiled to deep West Virginia,
But now you're back home at IV.
Now Michael's a doctor of geekiness
Who somehow had time for a wife
So he married Leanne and they moved to Cheyenne-land
And tried for the John Denver life.
But the natives ate Big Macs and Heineken,
And vego cuisine was unknown,
So they've packed up their books and their Macintosh
And back to Australia they've flown.
So play us a tune, Dr Winikoff
By Beethoven, Mozart or Orff.
A chorus by Bizet or Borodin
Or maybe the theme to Red Dwarf.
And blow us away, Dr Winikoff
Not one of us thinks it is odd
That Christians and Pagans and atheists
All give you the nickname of "God"!
Ever since I heard about Solomon the Rubber Chicken, SCUNA's mascot, I knew there was potential there. Unusually for me, I actually did something about it. The tune is obvious.
[March 1996]
Rubber chicken, you're the one,
Think I'll call you Solomon,
Rubber chicken, you're awfully wise, it's true,
Buk-buk-b'gak!
Rubber chicken, latex toy,
You're an alto, not a boy,
Rubber chicken, you're our featherless friend, that's you,
Oooh-oooh..
Told my mother I
Can't explain what it is, ma,
Don't you know that the chicken she
Simply oozes charisma,
(Oh what a feeling!)
Rubber chicken, hear us howl,
You're our fav'rite floppy fowl!
Rubber chicken, there isn't a group of -
Rubber chicken, I'd like a whole coop of -
Rubber chicken, we'll never make soup of you!
Buk-buk-b'gak!
Cameron is one of the more... noticeable... members of QUMS, the Queensland Uni Musical Society. I wrote this for him at SIV. Do I really need to reveal the song it's filked from?
[January 2002]
Sing low, sweet Cameron
Gotta be the only gay bass
I went way up North and what did I see?
Gotta be the only gay bass
A gray-haired boy, only twenty and three
Gotta be the only gay bass
Thought I'd seen it all, but oh dear me!
Gotta be the only gay bass
He's an island of smut in a Hansonite sea
Gotta be the only gay bass
They say SUMS are pooftas, SUMS are queer
Gotta be the only gay bass
But compared to Cameron they're nowhere near!
Gotta be the only gay bass
All you straight laced basses, hear that rumbling sound,
Come and be another gay bass
Cos there ain't e-nough altos to go a-round,
Come and be another gay bass!
We did the Bennett Christmas Carols for SCUNA's 1995 Christmas concert. Susanni was by far the most practiced of the five, because we also performed it for a pitifully-produced WIN-TV promo. I sprung this on the choir after about sixteen hours of filming (well, it felt like it) and probably helped drive our conductor Andrew madder than before.
[December 1995]
A TV star is born not made:
Andrew, Andrew, superstar superstar superstar
Upon the box he'll be replayed
What a hero, what a hero
Until the Christmas season fades.
Now Andrew is the hero's name
Andrew, Andrew, superstar superstar superstar
And waving big sticks is his game;
What a hero, what a hero
Compared to Kris he's fairly tame.
It came on Friday afternoon:
Andrew, Andrew, superstar superstar superstar
The cameras whirred, we sang a tune
What a hero, what a hero
Now Canberra women start to swoon.
These cameras came with noise and light
Andrew, Andrew, superstar superstar superstar
And gave the ducks an awful fright
What a hero, what a hero
All for a sixty second bite!
Now sit we down and watch TV
His head is all we get to see
He's tall and thin but still sexy!
This is the other Canberra IV item I wrote, the one that didn't seem quite as successful (see Jerusawoody). The problem seems to be that filk only works if your audience is familiar with the original, and too many choristers have spent too much time listening to ABC-FM to know all the old mainstream country classics like The Devil Went Down To Georgia, by the Charlie Daniels Band. This song is a true story, by the way, and in case you wonder, LST is Long Sleeved T-shirt.
[June 1996]
The tenor went down to Canberra, he was lookin' for a song to sing.
He was pretty green upon the choral scene, and he was hopin' to find a fling.
When he came across this bushdance, strippin' o' the willow and wearin' black,
And the tenor stood upon the polished wood and said, "Boy, this is rilly slack!
"Well, I guess you didn't know it, but I'm a party rager too,
"I have to say without delay, I'm unimpressed with you.
"Now you do pretty good dancing here, but I seen better in church.
"Got a mission I'm in, to find some sin, and I guess I gotta still search."
So the boss said, "My name's Dervish, and it might be July,
"But I'll show you what makes a chicken get hot, cos we're the best you'll ever try!"
Dervish gather up your crowd, and leave your shirts behind,
Precision topless dancing teams are never hard to find.
And if you want the band'll stay and play till twelve or one,
And if they do, they're gonna have some fun.
The tenor opened up his eyes and said, "That's quite a show!"
And drool ran from his gaping jaw as he watched the dancers go.
They dragged the boy away from there, his legs had ceased to stand,
Then a crowd of dancers joined it, and it really stunned the band!
(Instrumental)
When the tenor sat, the Dervish said, "Well you're pretty wet, my child,
"Just sit down on that chicken there, let us prove to you we're wild!"
Fire on the dancefloor, do-si-do,
This is how the IVs always go.
Better not be too shy, don't you know,
Only got a fortnight, don't be slow.
The tenor gave a hoot, because he knew that he could rage,
And he dropped his LST upon the pile against the stage.
And Dervish said, "Just get on down if you ever wanna dance with me,
"Cos I told you once, you son of a bitch, it's the ninety six IV!"
They sang:
Fire on the dancefloor, do-si-do,
This is how the IVs always go.
Better not be too shy, don't you know,
Only got a fortnight, don't be slow.
By half way through the camp at Melbourne IV, 1998, the floors in the rehearsal room were carpeted with exhausted choristers. It's always the way. Woody wrote a lovely filk called Corpses, to the tune of a carol called Torches. I wrote this, which I don't think I ever performed. It's to the tune of A Thousand Miles Away by the Hoodoo Gurus.
[January 1998]
Estimated time of rehearsal 9:15am
Been in the noisy dorm and so I'm tired before it even begins
(Now you're singing) I got all these notes in front of me
(Really singing) They're stretching out far as the next IV
Next IV
Spend half my morning queuing, getting breakfast or locating a seat
And if I'm not in early then it's jelly jam on toast that I eat
(Now you're singing) I find a piece of floor where I can lay
(Really singing) I'd rather sleep a thousand hours a day
Thousand hours a day
Singing with a crowd's sometimes louder than you thought it would be
It can be as noisy in the choir as at an airport or a major factory
(Now you're singing) I think I'm learning Russian, who can say
(Really singing) I hope my voice at least survives till concert day
It's nearly gone away
A thousand miles away
Instrumental break
I promise to myself this time I'd take the chance and try to have sex
Out of all those cute sopranos is there one who'd like a bass's respect?
(Now you're singing) Right now I think they're all attached or gay
(Really singing) IV sex: a thousand years away
Thousand years away
(A thousand years away)
Thousand years away
(A thousand years away)
(Now you're singing) What was that that Ben was trying to say?
Some thing he's said a thousand times today, hey
(A thousand times a day)
Sing it again
(A thousand tenors are gay)
Sing it again
(A thousand clouds are grey)
Sing it again
(A thousand cows eat hay)
Smyert it again...
It would appear that most of what I write is filk about stuff happening in the SCA. I've been a feast steward, a herald, an web developer (!) and assorted other things in the SCA in my time, but through it all I've remained a bard; most specifically, a bard who isn't much chop at making up tunes. So filk is kind of inevitable. One day I'll get a Laurel for it, I'm sure.
I was sitting watching the May Coronet tourney in St Florians (see The Kurgan's Song and King Horsey for other artistic output from that weekend) and someone asked why I'd never written an anthem for the remarkably fecund shire of Bacchus Woods. I grabbed some paper and remedied the lack then and there.
[May 1998]
If you go down to the 'Woods today,
You better have sturdy boots.
If you should see Bacchus Woods today,
Beware of their ripened fruits.
For every lass that ever was kissed
Allowed the kiss to linger, persist,
And grow into the Bacchus Breeding Program.
If you should meet with a woman there
You'll see that she's quite a prize:
Her form is firm and her face is fair;
She's sweet on your weary eyes.
But watch it when she leads you away
To bide with her a night and a day,
Or else you'll join the Bacchus Breeding Program!
Breeding time in Bacchus Woods:
You can inspect the goods,
But don't be too quick to try your luck --
Something in the water there
Can make a lady fair
A dangerous fruit to try and pluck.
See them flirt and toss their heads
And if you need a bed
They're happy to lend you theirs --
Before you blink they've shown you why
The men of Bacchus smile,
And you've answered their fondest prayers.
Oh, if you go down to the 'Woods today,
Avoid all their games and toys;
If you should see Bacchus Woods today,
You're better off meeting boys.
The cantons, shires and Barony there
Will welcome you with never a care,
But not so well as the Bacchus Breeding Program!
Said I would, and I did. Here you go. To the tune of Science Fiction/Double Feature from The Rocky Horror Picture Show:
[April 2007]
Henry Tudor was young
When he was writing songs
But they mostly stuck around;
And John Dowland wrote smut
His tunes are all un-cut
And full of quite lascivious sounds.
Then things went astray
With old Josquin de Prez
With his Masses from popular songs
Then in a deadly rush
They all got told to hush
Invention is inherently wrong!
Bardic Circle? (no! no! no!) Won't permit it!
Filk's a sin! (oh oh oh) So don't commit it!
You're better off to (oh oh oh) sing in choirs,
And keep your folk songs (oh oh oh) far from our fires!
Woh oh oh oh oh
At the late night choral Laurel singing show
I know Mistress Tangwystl
Would reach for her pistol
If you ask her to sing something rude!
And it's simply not done,
To expect to have fun
When Duke Baldwin's in a musical mood.
All the peers we respect
Are quite direct:
It's Latin or nothing, they say.
If you want to sing
Some original thing
Don't do so in our SCA
In a...
Bardic Circle? (no! no! no!) Won't permit it!
Filk's a sin! (oh oh oh) Don't commit it!
You're better off to (oh oh oh) sing in choirs
And keep your folk songs (oh oh oh) far from our fires
Woh oh oh oh oh
At the late night choral Laurel singing show.
Keep your voice low
In the late night choral Laurel singing show.
Why do we go
To the late night choral Laurel singing show?
I just don't know
It's the late night choral Laurel singing show.
They had boat races at Rowany Festival, AS XXIX, when King Fabian was visiting. Oddly enough, they did these with boats, or at least with boat-shaped frameworks that fit up to half a dozen "sailors". As an entry in the Nil Stercus Ibi Fui (No Shit, There I Was) competition after the Festival, I produced this. It's to the tune of the theme from Gilligan's Island.
[April 1995]
Pay heed to the tale of a deathbound ship,
With a love-lorn crew of four:
Young Tegan, Morag, Jamie boy,
And Bastian the Whore, old Bastian the Whore.
When Viscount Brusi gave the call
For a side to join the war,
He called on Morag, Teggles and James,
And Bastian the Whore.
The Jolly Rogered sailed away
On the sea for a month or more
With a crew of Jamie, Morag, Teegs,
And Bastian the Whore.
For a year they fought the noble fight,
For honour, gold and glor-
-Y, with Morag, Jim and Teegy-Babes,
And Bastian the Whore.
Till nasty Gregory of Loch Swan,
He came upon the corps,
Of Jimmy, Morag, Dancing Teeg,
And Bastian the Whore.
He rammed the Jolly Rogered then,
And left them on the shore,
Poor Morie-snookums, Tegan, Jim
And Bastian the Whore.
They lived a while and then they died,
They're buried there (how poor!)
Young Tegan, Morag, James the Blond,
And Bastian the Whore!
The Board of Directors of the SCA, known as the BoD, went through a time of megalomania in 1994, beginning with their threats to ban non-members from all SCA events, and culminating in their resignation and/or impeachment and a newer, friendlier, more accountable BoD taking their place, to everyone's immense relief. This is to the tune of God Shuffled His Feet, by The Crash Test Dummies.
[mid-1994]
After thirty years,
they got quite scared,
so BoD said,
"Let us calm our fears,
make some new rules,
to cover our heads."
They gathered up
some lawyers from outside,
created edicts
and sat back for the ride.
The people read their mail,
once it got there,
and asked them questions
like, "Can we get to read
all your records
of the problems?
And if my name
got taken off your roll,
would I be still allowed
to get in past the troll?"
BoD shuffled their books
and ran around
in fright.
The people reached for swords
and made their plans
to fight.
So BoD said,
"What if there's a boy
who picks up
a feast knife?
"To him, it is a toy
till he falls down,
risking his life!
"We thought of how
his friends would come to sue.
Would we have enough
to see a lawsuit through?"
BoD shuffled their books
and ran around
in fright.
The people reached for swords
and made their plans
to fight.
The people stood staring
in every kingdom,
every shire.
But BoD kept screaming,
till someone asked them,
"Where's the fire?
"Not quite sure,
the reason for the fuss.
Are we on LA Law
or aren't you one of us?"
BoD shuffled their books
and ran around
in fright.
The people reached for swords
and made their plans
to fight.
Drake asked me if I had anything in my vast store of period tunes that mentioned his interests. I did some research, and on page 612 of my copy of The Chylde Ballads (by Dr B J Chylde, the well known Dutch author) I found the following, which dates from 1472. The tune is Cliff Richard's Devil Woman.
[May 1998]
I've had nothing but cheap mead
Since the day I started drinking at all.
But I heard there's a smoother option,
If you know the people to call.
Alchemy in the kitchen
Brewing the ale, the mead
Mad man with his evil eyes
And Berocca is the help I'll need...
He's just the brewer Morgan, with kumiss in his cup
Beware the brewer Morgan, he's gonna serve you
He's just the brewer Morgan, he'll fill your tankard up
Beware the brewer Morgan, he's gonna serve you every time
Give me your goblet or tankard,
Let me know the taste you prefer
I can serve you a range of flavours,
Choc'late Guinness, peanut liqueur.
I drank the potion he offered me
I found myself on my back
Then I looked in those bloodshot eyes
And I asked him for a whole six-pack
He's just the brewer Morgan, with mead in every mug
Beware the brewer Morgan, he's gonna serve you
He's just the brewer Morgan, just ask him for a jug
Beware the brewer Morgan, he's gonna serve you every time
A dear sweet innocent lass took a dash to the privies one evening, secure in the knowledge that at 2am there'd be nobody loitering outside and chatting. I threatened for a year to write something in honour of the event. I can't remember who suggested that I filk "Yellow Polka Dot Bikini", but it was the inspiration I needed.
[Easter 2003]
She was afraid to go down to the privies
She was frightened that someone would see
She was afraid to go down to the privies
'Till she really was bursting to pee!
1-2-3-4
Tell the people what she wore...
It was the latest thing in pers'nal armour
Purple stretchy striped pyjamas
That she wore for the first time tonight
The latest thing in pers'nal armour
Purple stretchy striped pyjamas
And she feared she'd be seen in the light
She was afraid to come out of the privies
'Cause the murmers had grown to be loud
She was afraid to come out of the privies
She'd attracted a sizeable crowd
Eine-zwei-drei-vier
Tell uss vhat ve vant to hear!
It was the latest thing in pers'nal armour
Purple stretchy striped pyjamas
That she wore on a run to the lav
The latest thing in pers'nal armour
Purple stretchy striped pyjamas
Just the thing every lass ought to have!
The day after SCUNA's Mozart/Szymanowsky concert, I went along to a tourney and wrote this for the winner, who just happened to be my favourite filkee, Sir Brusi Anderson of the Shetlands. Tragically, I don't recall which bit of the Szymanowsky Stabat Mater I'm filking here, and the lyrics won't help you cos the original's in Polish. I can hum it for you, if you like.
[March 1996]
Brusi fought in tourneys and wars,
Brusi fought and Brusi scored,
When Brusi fought.
Every man who fell at his hand,
Every man in every land
An answer sought.
How could he so easily win?
What inspired this man in tin,
When Brusi fought?
Brusi said, and humbly spoke he,
"I owe my constant victory
"To my consort!"
Alice was the one who inspired;
Alice smiled and Bruce perspired,
When Brusi fought.
This is to the tune of Cam Ye Oer Frae France, which Steeleye Span do a rollickin' rendition of, and is about the sort of painful people you see at SCA feasts wishing they were at Tetsuyas.
[June 2007]
Cam ye here tae bitch?
Cam ye here for moanin'?
I saw ye leavin' court;
Wisht ye hadnae blown in!
Oh, di'n't ye like the way
Someone got awarded?
What ye had tae say
'S best left unrecorded...
First remove is oot,
Didnae hear ye cheerin'.
Some tucked in but you
Could hardly eat for sneerin'.
Out there came a blade,
Tried tae cut your meat, sir;
Said ye'd rather trade
For a slice of pizza.
Swore the eggs were bad,
Blythely cleared the platter,
Cook was clearly mad,
Using too much butter.
What was not served raw
Cooked had been for ages.
Gin he worked for free,
He's still nae worth his wages!
Got ye up tae dance,
Couldnae find a lady.
When they saw ye prance,
Out they skipped all shady!
They'll be back, ye said,
Bouncing, pert and pretty --
Still they cam not back
Dearie, what a pity!
Hey for talkin' true,
Hey for rulin' proudly.
Hey for such as you
Speakin' out sae loudly.
Many a man has burned,
To be so judgemental.
All the best have learned
Better to be gentle
When the lady Armida Somethingspanish (Miesje) stepped down as College Seneschal to head off to Ynys Fawr for a year, there was some difficulty in finding a successor. Eventually a victim was discovered, and I finally got a chance to write a filk song whose final line is legendary. The tune is more or less MUFS' Azaria, aka The Lion Sleeps Tonight.
[November 1995]
In the college, the sacred college, the students greet the year.
In the college, the sacred college, the teachers quake with fear.
Who can be the Seneschal, oh who can be the Seneschal...
Dear Armida, belov'd Armida, she shall rule no more.
Hush your crying, she'll soon be flying off to Ynys Fawr.
Who can be the Seneschal, oh who can be the Seneschal...
She used to be the College boss
She had to give the job the toss
She's off to earn a good degree
In Hrolf Herjolffsen's Baronee...
Who can be the Seneschal, oh who can be the Seneschal...
Dear Armida, she found a leader, built to save the day.
Don't be frightened, you'll be enlightened: this is Nimuë!
Nimuë-a-Nimuë, Nimuë-a-Nimuë, ...
This was commissioned by Lady Sybille even before Sir Cornelius won November Crown, AS XXXVII, and before he became Lochac's second King. It's to the tune of The Court of King Caractacus, which was made popular by Rolf Harris.
[October 2002]
Oh, the nobles of the kingdom
Of the court of King Cornelius
Were just passing by.
Oh, the nobles of the kingdom
Of the court of King Cornelius
Were just passing by.
Oh, the nobles of the kingdom
Of the court of King Cornelius
Were just passing by.
Oh, the nobles of the kingdom
Of the court of King Cornelius
Were just passing by.
Oh, the peerage in the service
Of the nobles of the kingdom
Of the court of King Cornelius
Were just passing by.
(All together now!)
...
Oh, the squires who are indentured
To the peerage in the service
Of the nobles of the kingdom
Of the court of King Cornelius
Were just passing by.
...
Oh, the alcoholic wenches
On the tavern's wooden benches
Serving cider to the squires who are indentured
To the peerage in the service
Of the nobles of the kingdom
Of the court of King Cornelius
Were just passing by.
...
If you'd like to have adventures
With the alcoholic wenches
On the tavern's wooden benches
Serving cider to the squires who are indentured
To the peerage in the service
Of the nobles of the kingdom
Of the court of King Cornelius
You're too late!
Because they've just passed by!
Prince Alfar was annoyed at the lack of Viking songs of a complimentary nature. Knowing that I like a challenge, he set me the task of remedying the lack. This was my first try; the second, more successful try is Hedeby's Quarter. The tune is a little-known Flanders & Swann tune called Twenty Tons of TNT; those who know both the original song and the Prince in question are invariably amused at the appropriateness.
[Spring War, 1998]
In the icy northern oceans lives a race as pure as snow
Who cannot conceive the notion of surrender to the foe.
No surrender, no retreat, sir; ever on to victory.
You shall tremble when you meet, sir, dragon ships upon the sea.
Every man of every nation (dragon ships upon the sea)
Dreads this fearful revelation (dragon ships upon the sea)
Lombard, Spaniard, Frank, Italian, noble king or peasantry,
Longs to flee upon his stallion dragon ships upon the sea.
Loot and plunder, burn and pillage (dragon ships upon the sea)
Swords can cause excessive spillage (dragon ships upon the sea)
Sue for peace now, if you're able; be a Viking colony!
Nordic rule is highly stable: dragon ships upon the sea.
Fear the men in furry raiment (dragon ships upon the sea)
Glory is their finest payment (dragon ships upon the sea)
Ragnarok will come hereafter, war to end all wars to be
From one clan alone comes laughter... dragon ships upon the sea.
I've never actually filked The Proclaimer's 500 Miles, but I have filked I'm On My Way. This is the song in question, the tale of one Elfin of Mona, who popped over to Europe on a working holiday and won the first Crown Tourney of the new Kingdom of Drachenwald. Local boy makes good!
[1992]
I'm on my way from Mordenvale to Drachenwald today, uh-huh (uh-huh) uh-huh (uh-huh).
I'm on my way from Mordenvale to Drachenwald today, yeah yeah yeah yeah.
I'm on my way to rule the greater Known World
And years from now you'll see my banner unfurled
In every place from Southron Gaard to Lochac
I'll be the first to be the ruling monarch.
I took a trip, I took a trip to Europe months ago, uh-huh (uh-huh) uh-huh (uh-huh).
I took a trip, I took a trip to Europe months ago, yeah yeah yeah yeah.
I fought the fight that brought me to the new Crown,
You must be mad to think I'll ever step down,
And when the reign is over and the job's done
I'll wander round until I find a new one.
You know that I don't want to stay at home
Until the vote gets through, and Lochac's ripe for conquering too!
I'll do my best, I'll do my best to rule the best I can, uh-huh (uh-huh) uh-huh (uh-huh)
I'll do my best, I'll do my best to rule the best I can, yeah yeah yeah yeah
To keep the knights from messing up my reign, sir,
To keep the peers from thinking I've no brain, sir,
To keep the crown, the crown upon my own skull,
To try and make my tenure nothing like dull.
Every now and then the SCA heavies in the US decide to mess up everyone else's game. A while back they tried banning archery because, to paraphrase one thug on the rec.org.sca mailing list, "we don't like it that they can shoot us and then run away before we get to hurt them back". Then there was the fencing ban, championed by a small spherical Queen who believed that fencing wasn't period but it was OK to make Star Trek jokes at tourneys. And their most recent edict (so far): requiring that all archers wear heavy armour and, by implication, open themselves up to attack with sword and mace. Lochac has the concept of "combat lights": archers, siege engineers and banner bearers who the heavies may not hit, but who are required to fall over and play dead as soon as a heavy comes within a certain number of metres of their position. This has worked safely and enjoyably for twenty years, but that didn't stop the tentpegs wanting to change "their" game.
This is about that. It's to the tune of The Agincourt Carol, but of course you can sing it to the tune of the Banana Boat Song. The chorus is the biblical latin: God said "Let there be light!" And there was light.
Oh, and the good news: the concerted effort by the Lochac SCA solved the problem and a sensible compromise was reached. This time.
[September 2006]
Sir Greg went forth to Pennsic War
To meet with marshalls, knights and more
There learned he of strange new law
Wherefore Lochac may wail and roar
Fiat Lux: Fiat Lux et facta est lux dixitque Deus.
He laid a feast, his truth to convey,
For all his guests who passed his way.
His earnest words, well made that day
On deaf ears fell, and went astray.
Fiat Lux: Fiat Lux et facta est lux dixitque Deus.
Then went Sir Greg, with all his host
To Lochac's shore, from isles to coast
He shared his dread and made a toast
To all who heard this mighty boast:
Fiat Lux: Fiat Lux et facta est lux dixitque Deus.
Fiat Lux!
To the tune of The Battle Hymn Of The Republic. No comment. Long Live The King!
[Easter 2002]
They glower down through history like a secret family curse.
You can pray that they're improving but they're only getting worse.
The best that you can say is, "Well, at least they're well rehearsed".
Their reigns go on and on.
Gods preserve us from the Vikings
Gods preserve us from the Vikings
Gods preserve us from the Vikings
Their reigns go on and on.
You hear the booming chorus when they lift their heads to sing.
You can feel the rumbling tremors when they cheer their mighty King.
It's possible to have too much of almost anything.
Their reigns go on and on.
The jewellery from the harrows is particularly fine.
On the misty field of battle you can see their helmets shine.
We'd like to pay the Dane-Geld; would you tell us where to sign?
Their reigns go on and on.
There was a bijou flamewar-ette on the Shambles mailing list about Grants of Arms and what those who bear them should be called. I believe some heralds wanted to drag the SCA kicking and screaming into the middle ages and use some kind of authentic system, so naturally there was a ruckus. This, to the tune of the Bangles' Walk Like An Egyption, is my response to that particular attitude.
[August 2008]
All the old farts in the SCA
They use the same words, don't you see
If they talk too quick (ay-oh-ay)
You wonder what can the meaning be
All the ageing knights at the bar,
They talk about lights and rhino-hide
There I was, no shit (ay-oh-ay)
Their belts are off-white and rather wide
Foreign wars in the days of yore, sing
Ess-see-ay oh, ay-oh-kay oh
Talk like a SCAdian
Old Pelicans love their pits
The privy's put up, you're set to go
These modern loos (ay-oh-ay)
Are smelly and prone to overflow.
All the founders so loved their books
Le Guin and Tolkien, T.H. White
When they're naming things (ay-oh-ay)
The wonder is when they get it right.
Jack and Jill in their cotton drill say
Ess-see-ay oh, ay-oh-kay oh
Talk like a SCAdian
Wear your 'Bethan garb to the feast
Pay the troll, greet the autocrat
Bow to the thrones (ay-oh-ay)
Get out your feast gear, lay it flat.
If you want to find all the peers
They're hanging out with the pointy hats
Their Lordships too (gee-oh-ay)
The landless white trash and feastocrats
Baron Master Sir Whatsisname
Will call you "My Lord" if you're mundane
And the heralds say (ay-oh-ay)
That's what you do if you're SCAdian
Will you pass in your history class? Say:
Nay-no-way-oh, ess-see-ay-oh,
Talk like a SCAdian
I made a comment on the Shambles, quoting a cartoon character: "The King is a fink!" I don't recall the context, but I was amused at the response from some of the Shamblites. To save the poor dears from conniption fits, I conferred with friends in the West -- sorry, the Central West -- and got some details about the King at the time, whose name is spelt Hauoc and pronounced (by those who know him) as "ha-VECK". The tune is the old folk song, Matty Groves.
[May 1998]
One day, one day in thirty-two, as the Westrealm numbers years,
A fighter took the tourney field, amid the rowdy cheers.
He had him a belt of simple white; his shield was small and wee;
He held the day against his foe and he won the victory.
The King was a mighty lord and fair, brought glory to the Crown,
But he knew the time was drawing near, he would be standing down.
He called the fighter to his side, a long tall man was he,
And he said, "I'll take you as my heir, if you listen close to me.
"In all of the world I swear you'll find no Kingdom like the West,
"I've travelled far on every wind, and find our home the best.
"But look, if you will, far to the south -- I bid you, soldier, mark:
"No greater jewel has the Western Crown than the island called Lochac."
The King in time was called to leave his title and his crown;
The soldier as his chosen heir, stepped up when he stepped down.
"Now follow me in all I say, as truly as the sun."
"I'll follow you," the fighter said, "in every way but one."
Hauoc the King, now newly crowned, addressed the realm anew.
"In wisdom has the old King ruled, and wisely shall I too.
"But one command he gave to me, I may not heed or mark:
"I'll not believe our fairest jewel is the island land Lochac."
Surprise, surprise in every face, of every man or child;
The King for half a breath was stern, and then he widely smiled:
"I know that Lochac is a jewel, although I've never seen;
"But the fairest jewel I'll ever know is my own fair lady Queen."
I can't stand to stride
Walking on my feet
I just want to ride,
A good horse under me
I'm more than a nerd, I'm more than a geek
I'm something this island finds to be unique
And it's not easy to beat me...
I wish that I could fight
All would envy me
Find a foe to try
In a tourney by the sea
I may spread the word, be seen in the news
Every reader thinks I'm really cool
So don't be disturbed, it's just what I choose
I don't mind my tendency to bruise
But it's not easy to beat me
Up and find a way, a way to be...
Well I'm a knight, till I've found someone to fight,
I'm not aiming to be the king...
I can't stand to stride
Plodding on my feet
Men weren't meant to die
On a couch or bed or seat
I'm only a man in a shiny tin suit
Looking for someone else who wants to be
Only a man in a shiny tin suit
Looking for someone else apart from me
Apart from me
Apart from me
Yeah, apart from me
Apart from me
I'm only a man
In a shiny tin suit
I'm only a man
Looking to recruit
I'm only a man
In a shiny tin suit
And it's not easy, ooh ooh ooh
It's not easy to beat me
Another one for Prince Brusi, as was. He hates it, but everyone else loves it; possibly those two facts are interrelated. It's to the tune of We Will Rock You, by Queen.
[mid-1992]
Brusi you're a knight, make a big noise,
Fighting in the war, gonna be a top dog some day
You got a grin on your face, you wave that mace,
Kicking your squires all over the place, singing
He will, he will rule you
He will, he will rule you
Brusi you're a Viceroy, big boy,
Giving it your all, gonna take on the West one day
You got a grin on your face, you wave that mace
Visiting the shires all over the place
He will, he will rule you, singing
He will, he will rule you
Brusi you're a real prince, don't wince,
Ruling with a smile, gonna spin you some tales this day,
You got a grin on your face, you wave that mace,
Critics better scurry back into their place
He will, he will rule you, sing it
He will, he will rule you
Everybody, he will, he will rule you
He will, he will rule you
Lute solo!
I wrote this in honour of Prince Alfar of Attica, who decreed a ban on cow-tipping -- the alleged practice of pushing cows over for fun -- during his first reign. Apparently a friend of his, Rhodry the Romantic, had suggested a bit of cow-tipping during a trip from Sydney to Canberra. If you can't figure out what it's a filk of, you need to listen to more commercial radio.
[1993?]
Oh, I bet you wonder why I moo
'Bout your plans for a cow or two
To push it on its side, a tipping spree,
Between the Princess and I, you know we disagree.
It caught us by surprise, we've revealed
When we found you in that field, oh oh
We heard it from the bovine,
No more tipping when the crown's mine
Oh, oh, we heard from the bovine,
That you're just about to cross the line.
Oh, a cow ain't supposed to fall,
When I'm Prince, it won't be done at all.
You bully cows, you lose your life, you see,
'Cos it's all an udder crime to me.
You could have saved us the pain
Of hearing all those puns again, but instead...
Alfar's request for a sympathetic Viking song was one of the tougher commissions I've carried out. The tune of Turn Of A Friendly Card by the Alan Parsons Project, modified slightly, provided the method; the weekend of the William Marshall feast provided the opportunity; the company I was (perhaps ill-advisedly) keeping provided the motive.
A note on pronunciations: Jon the Prevert helped me out here; I believe Hedeby is /HED-uh-bee/, Bjarkoy is /BYAR-koy/, Sciringesheal is /skih-RING-gah-shall/ and Othere is /OH-thair-uh/. Anyone who has a grasp of medieval Icelandic is welcome to offer alternative advice, and I'll try to fit it into the rhyme scheme.
[7 December 1998]
Down from Bjarkoy we ride on the slow-turning tide
With our skins and our beasts all for trading
In Sciringesheal port we will trade as we ought
No more need now for reeving and raiding.
And she's not one to wave from the harbourside,
As we sail for the cold open sea
And I hope, while I'm gone, that her smile will shine on,
But I hope she'll shed some tears for me.
We are Othere's men, on the ocean again
Trading deer to the southlands for treasure.
All the brightest and best we will win, south and west,
All their jewels and their wine in full measure.
And she's not one to vow she'll be ever true,
'Though I always we be so to she
And I hope, while I'm gone, that her smile will shine on,
But I hope she'll shed some tears for me.
In a month and a week we will win what we seek
When our ship comes to Hedeby's quarter
And our futures are made from the treasures we trade
For the life of the wind and the water
And my shipmates can dream of adventuring
But the only dream I know will be
That I hope, while I'm gone, that her smile will shine on,
But I hope she'll shed some tears for me.
As a result of a bardic challenge issued between Master Dafydd and I, I produced a filked history of my persona's late father, Eric of Tobar Mhuire, and sang it, back when I was Eric. It's to the tune of I Was Only Nineteen, by Redgum.
[Easter 1996]
Mum and Dad and Angus saw me passing out, the day I tried a kilt on
(It was a cold day for a dress)
The local Elders were a grumpy lot, it was me who drew their wrath
I played the bagpipes, very badly I confess.
And snowfall lined the dirt tracks as I watched sheep in the yard
The shearing was a marathon, their wool was frozen hard.
And there's me, with a sharp stick, up at midnight standing guard
God help me, I was only a bard.
From Scotland to the continent I quickly made my way
I'd been in and out of trouble singing songs
Cos I put a few scots noses out, and I thought I'd sieze the day
Back on Mull, my own career would not be long.
And can you tell me, Dafydd, why I'm feathered and I'm tarred?
And why the Guild of Music Makers took away my card?
And why do all these cavaliers keep telling me en guarde?
God help me, I was only a bard.
The priesthood, my vocation, any step could be the path to mortal sin,
It was a war within your kilt
But I didn't let them catch me and I had some lusty fun,
Till I had to leave, to stop blood being split.
Because someone told her father! And the lord in question swore
He'd catch the bleeding novice who had made his girl a whore!
I could have told him, save your breath, she's done all this before
God help me, it was time to move some more.
But I can still be Frankish, drinking vino in the summer hall
With a hundred Saxon slavegirls dancing round
And I can still be Frankish, singing smutty songs in Latin
With the local counts unconscious on the ground.
And the celtic legends didn't mention feasting, food and filk,
And the stories were of saintly souls, as dull as watered milk
I learned some things in Frankish lands I couldn't disregard
God help me, I was only a bard.
And can you tell me, Dafydd, why I'm feathered and I'm tarred?
And why the channel crossing left me permanently scarred?
And why do all these cavaliers keep telling me en guarde?
God help me, I was only a bard.
One of the other challenges of the May Coronet Bardic Eistedfodd was an impromptu, with 15 minutes preparation time, on the topic of the mammoth spectacle the Florianites put on during the feast, involving a three-act precis of the Trojan War. This and The Kurgan's Song won me my first A&S award ever... probably my last, of course... The tune is King Henry.
[May 1998]
If ever a feast is being held there's lots of work to do,
But the stewards of this Coronet could teach a thing or two.
Their food and banners work quite well; I liked the green fish sauce;
But the big mistake that Ulfgar made was the timing of his horse.
The horse was a marvel, so I hear, a wonder to behold,
With a head in proper Spartan style to match the tales of old.
But, sadly, no man hereabouts perceived this mighty toy;
We were all distracted, every one, by the Spartan Queen of Troy!
What horse, what horse, you autocrat, what horsie do you mean?
I don't recall a horsie here; it's not a thing I've seen.
But never mind, I'll get my chance, this mighty beast I'll see:
I plan to move to Florian's to dwell more near to She!
I wanted to write another filk about the SCA, particularly about the somewhat lax standards it allows. I started out trying to filk the theme from Kimba the White Lion, something about "TSCA the (something) (something)" but I got stuck: "Who's got purple kittens on his coat of arms / Who wears jeans and Adidas in court ..." and then nothing. Then Celsa posted her filk and my angle changed. This is much less cynical. It's to the tune of Mad World, either the Tears For Fears version or the Gary Jules version; you pick.
[September 2008]
All around me are a hundred faces
Swords and maces, courtly graces
Brightly flicker in the candle's traces
Going Dreaming, going Dreaming
They cheer now, raising up their tankards
No evasion, no evasion
Hide my smile, I want to say it's crazy,
Far too hazy, even lazy
But I find it right and proper, I find it just the thing
We got our basic structure from The Once and Future King
It's written on the cover, and it's there for you to see:
"To dream the Middle Ages just exactly as they
Should be, should be"
Children learning even though they hate school
This is still cool, this is still cool
Play at being king and queen of misrule,
Bright eyes glisten, bright eyes glisten
When I started I was very nervous
Just a newbie, just a newbie
Found a way to figure what's my talent
Now just watch me, now just watch me
And I find it right and proper, I find it just the thing
We got our basic structure from The Once and Future King
It's written on the cover, yes it's there for you to see:
"To dream the Middle Ages just exactly as they
Should be, should be"
To the tune of the Seekers' Morningtown Ride, about the lads and lasses of Mordenvale.
[2002]
Boofy boys assembled,
Dressed in red and green;
Most are merely scruffy
But some are quite obscene.
Planning plans of victory,
Cider, swords and snogs:
All bound for Mordenvale,
Hail the mighty grogs!
Bashing, boozing, bonking,
Trying not to spew:
This is what the grog boys
And grog girls love to do!
Brains are not required
Bathing's rarely done
Join the grogs of Mordenvale
Each and everyone!
When Mordenvale hosted November Coronet, they ran into a minor bit of trouble with the caretakers of the Polish Club where the feast was held. I think the poor dears couldn't handle the idea of a bunch of young folk in Newcastle gathering together with alcohol and music and not trashing the place. I decided to write a song of how we responded to their nastiness. Thanks to Maria Tarlowski, a speaker of Polish, I managed to include a line in genuine 100% guaranteed Polish. It's the second last verse; the last verse is the rough translation (strictly it's "when this hall has crumbled into the dust, our legend will still stand"). The tune is a Polish folk song, as modified by a 20th century Polish composer named Gorecki.
Rough pronunciation guide: "Nasza slawa przetrwa gruzy waszego domu" is /NAH-sha SWAH-va PSHET-rva GROO-zy va- SHEH-go do-MOO/, more or less.
[December 1997]
Spring, with a true lover's hand,
Held to her heart all the land.
All who would answer her call
Gathered in one mighty hall.
Three times its master appears,
Withered in spirit and years.
Called he for strong lantern light,
'Though all the candles were bright.
Young was the night when he spoke;
All peace and plenty he broke:
"Strangers, you know not my trust.
"Leave and depart now, you must!"
No Lord or Lady would shirk,
Each gave their all to the work.
Barely an hour was past
When all was tidy at last.
Nasza slawa przetrwa
Gruzy waszego domu.
Nasza slawa przetrwa
Gruzy waszego domu.
When to the dust you are gone,
This story still will live on.
When to the dust you are gone,
This story still will live on.
A dear friend had a fling with a lad who was the newest man-at-arms of a certain local fighter's household. In the height of passion, she requested this. I never did get to sing it for the boy: he's now a squire, meaning it's no longer accurate, so I just gave him a copy. He says it's all quite true. Please excuse all the running gags; they make sense if you know the people. The tune is Master Of The House, from Les Miserables.
[May 1994]
by Eric of Tobar Mhuire, Marijke van Leiden, Morag Freyser, Duncan MacAlpin Shieldsbane, and Loyola Juan Sanchez Mendoza
Welcome, my lass, lay yourself down
And meet the brand new legend in town.
As for the knights, all of them scum,
Wouldn't know how if they ever got some.
Seldom do you see axemen built like me,
A gent with an intent to share a tent or three.
Newest Man at Arms, fabulously sung,
Ready with a cuddle and a roving tongue.
Makes a saucy dish - come and have a stir! -
Ladies all appreciate a bon viveur.
Glad to do a girl a favour, even do it on my head,
Ready when you need me - brother, can you lend a man a bed?
Newest Man at Arms, handy with an axe,
Even bosses learn to take some hefty whacks.
Tossing down the ale, smooth as Persian silk,
Drinkers of my calibre, we don't need milk!
Everybody loves a hero, everybody dies to meet,
I do whatever pleases, sleazes shouldn't bother to compete.
Newest Man at Arms, quick to catch your eye,
Never let a conscious woman pass him by.
Subtle as a Pict, brave as any Celt,
Angling intently for a nice white belt.
Everybody aims for concord, gratitude's my middle name,
Lock up all your daughters, ought to be an interesting game.
Enter, my girl, lay down your head,
Unlace your dress and lie on the bed.
This knot's a curse, can't be untied,
But here my blade will help me inside.
Here the myths are made, here the rumours fly
And nothing's too perverse if you're game to try.
Nights beyond compare, nights beyond belief,
Mix it with a master and you'll find relief.
Muscles of a horse, balance of a cat,
Filling up your evènings with this and that.
Ressies beds are barely ample, try to find a bed that's wide.
Seize upon a nice one, leave its owners huddling outside.
Catch 'em when they're out, let 'em scream and shout,
As for what we're doing, let them have no doubt.
Here a little sigh, there a little yell,
Walls are thin as paper and the bed creaks well.
When it comes to endless noises, there are lots of folks who knows,
I do whatever pleases, never mind chemises,
Teases you the way the evening goes!
Newest Man at Arms, quick to catch your eye,
Never let a conscious woman pass him by.
Subtle as a Pict, brave as any Celt,
Angling intently for a nice white belt.
Everybody aims for concord, they know that I'm the only one.
Jealous bunch of losers, booze is all that makes them any fun.
Sung by the Lady in question:
(I used to dream that I'd consort a Prince,
But BoD almighty, have you seen what's happened since?
Newest Man at Arms, irritates and bores,
Ready to molest you with his hairy paws.
Takes you by the throat, gives it to you right,
Thinks he's quite a hero, but he takes all night.
What a new twist on climbing, never mind my dreams of fame,
Nothing could be sadder, sliding down the ladder, what a shame.)
Sung by the Man at Arms, with the Lady singing the parenthesised bits:
Newest Man at Arms (latest in a list!)
Ready when you need him (but he's always pissed!)
Tossing down the ale, cider, beer and mead,
(Tankard, sword and bimbo and it's all he'll need!)
Everybody bless the legend, bless his bint and all her charms
Everybody shout wahoo! (no one here has got a clue!)
Everybody shout wahoo to the newest Man at Arms!
I must've dashed this off when I was just getting over the Long Distance Relationship thing. It doesn't quite match reality, which is why I'm living under the flight path now.
[1998]
If a man would be a fighter,
And hold a sword and shield,
No finer place than home there is
To take the tourney field.
But away to the south my heart it is flying
And all for my Lady I'm leaving my home.
If a man would be an eater
And dine on wine and meat
No finer place than home there is
To sit and drink and eat
If a man would be a singer
Of epic ode and song
No finer place than home there is
To sing and dance along
If a man would be a lover
Of ladies young and old
No finer place than home there is
To find a one to hold
So away from the south my eyes they have wandered
There's plenty of ladies much closer to home
This just came to me. I should explain that I don't mean to say that the West Kingdom is evil or nasty or anything like that, just that I think there are advantages to having your central rulers near at hand. I mean no disrespect to the long list of kings and queens I've known and loved, and I hope they all take this in the spirit of gentle ribbing I intended... The tune is Go West by the Village People.
[May 1997]
Together we will run away, together lose the USA.
Together our King in our land, together beaurocrats are banned.
Together we will foot the cost, together tell the BoD get lost.
Together we will start a realm, together this is what we'll tell 'em.
No West, Kings are local here.
No West, fencers have no fear.
No West, archers all wear plumes.
No West, marching to their dooms.
No West, winter in July.
No West, big cross in the sky.
No West, gums and kangaroos.
No West, this is what we choose.
Together down on Bondi Beach, together walk on Lygon Street.
Together change our main device, 'cause sable, gules and Or is nice.
In Lochac, where we're living now, we're better off here anyhow
So that's why I have one request when I say we all need no West.
I know that there'll be many times when our King commits stupid crimes
Together we will all regret the fact that he's the boss, and yet
We know that, if he makes us stew, we know where he is living too
And it's not half a world away, with no more ISD to pay...
Sir Hugh the Little got transferred to Newman, a desert pit somewhere beyond the back of North West Nowhere, Western Australia, for a year. I composed this, to the tune of Eric Idle's The Galaxy Song from The Meaning Of Life, for his farewell party.
[1997?]
Just remember that you're moving to a village that's expanding
And demanding population from the east,
That was barely just a pimple on creation when the nation
Was born, two hundred years ago at least.
The town, and all its men, a goat, three goldfish and a hen
Will not support the kind of life you prized,
So what you'll have to do, if you're to make it through the year,
Is to get to work and make it civilised!
The exports of the town are aborigines and dirt;
And the population's listed as "asleep".
The only time some news occurred was 1843,
When the barber's son got married to a sheep.
There's twenty seven pubs, a produce shop and public loos,
But Maccas hasn't bothered moving in,
And it's just three hundred miles from Indonesia in the north,
So be sure you don't commit a Muslim sin!
The little town itself keeps on expanding and expanding
With all the city-slickers it can trap
As fast as it can grow, so it won't be long you know,
Before it's big as Sydney, but the night life will be crap.
So remember, when you're feeling very distant and remote,
All the megabucks your salary is worth:
And if there's no intelligent life up there where you live,
You can fly on down and buy up most of Perth!
As I mention elsewhere, the heavies of the SCA are fond of banning stuff they're not personally into. I think this is the reason they never allow any method of king-making apart from the tourney: they know the first Archer King or Laurel Queen by right of arms will ban their game as their first act, just to finally teach them a little empathy.
I've always been outspoken about this kind of bullshit, so I think I can claim that this response, in the style of Pastor Niemöller's First They Came..., is only 98.5% of a stretch.
[21 September 2006]
First they came for the archers
and I told them to pull their heads in
even though I was not an archer.
Then they came for the fencers
and I asked them if they wouldn't mind getting a bloody clue
even though I was not a fencer.
Then they came for the archers and the banner-bearers
and I started to get seriously miffed, as did several hundred friends of mine
even though I was still not an archer or a banner-bearer.
Then they came for me
and so I took a hefty broadsword
and rammed it so far up their arses
that they were sneezing rattan fibres for a week.
After that they stopped coming.
As a prize in the Rowany Festival Fighter Auction Prize Tourney (FFAPT!) I offered a "poet voucher", which a certain dancing viscountess picked up. She commissioned a filk song (honest!) about herself. The result was somewhat risque, but she liked it. The tune is Don't Stand So Close To Me by the Police.
[1997?]
Young toyboys the object of Lady's energies:
She strains them so badly, she leaves them on their knees.
Beside her, strong young men wear out and fall apart;
She's marking your performance: you must be strong of heart.
She moves, she moves so, she moves so perfectly.
She moves, she moves so, she moves so perfectly.
Her men are so lucky, oh what a way to die!
Sometimes it's worth crash-landing if first you touch the sky.
Temptation, frustration, she might be worth the chance;
Bright moonlight, she's waiting, now is the time to dance.
All night by dim lamp light, the himbos try and try;
All night in her campsite, old men need not apply.
It's no use, she'll see you, you'll start to shake and sweat;
Just eat up your oysters, you might survive this yet!
Someone made a comment on the Shambles about the White Company, a Brisbane fighter household, and I realised I'd heard it all before, in reference to Des Cartes and Lochiel and Attica and all the other pools of testosterone in the SCA. I wrote this, to the tune of Chris Isaak's Somebody's Crying, to show my feeling about this new, terrible threat.
[February 2000]
I know a fighter and he shines his kit
He sits up half the night and rubs at it
I bet you always thought it cost a bit,
But somebody's shining.
I know a fighter and he loves to clean,
A million times, you know he's really keen
He buffs his box up with Mr Sheen,
I know that somebody's shining
So please
Admire the work this boy has done
And please
You let him know he's the brightest one
I know when somebody's shining
I know when somebody's shining
I know that somebody's shining
I know that somebody's shining
Give him a cheer and tell him he's all right
If he keeps shining, he'll be a knight
Tho it might help if he would learn to fight...
As well as all of his shining
This is a terribly rude song about fighters (or, as the current King would have it, "combattants", from the French word "combattante" meaning "This King is a bit of a wanker"). It's to the tune of A Song Of Patriotic Prejudice by Flanders & Swann.
[2002]
The rottenest chaps in this pastime of ours
Are clearly the heavies, who never take showers.
Examine them closely, you'll gasp at the stink
No wonder they say that the king is a fink!
The fighters, the fighters, the fighters are worst
They're sordid and stinky and kinky and cursed
The heavy is dull, as we're all well aware,
With ugly big eyebrows and lank, greasy hair
He sweats in his armour, he drinks Gatorade,
And nothing he wears is remotely well made
The squire, you know, our contempt is beneath
With small piggy eyes and his yellow buck teeth
He blows his own trumpet, he's too often heard,
And he longs for a peerage - that's clearly absurd!
The knight is self-centred, he shows no respect
If he has any brain, well, it's hard to detect
He can't be relied on, he won't keep an oath
His gut's all that shows any personal growth!
And looking at royals, one cannot say things
For the princes and viscounts, the counts and the kings
The fighters are fighters, no matter their hats
And to try to control them is like herding cats!
And all through the Known World every kingdom's the same
They think that the stuff that we do is a game!
But worse -- so much worse -- than the sins of these churls,
Is the fact that they somehow still get all the girls!
It's not that they're wicked or naturally bad
It's knowing they're stickjocks that makes them so mad
For the minstrels are really the best you will see,
And the best of the best are my listeners... and me!
At the Midwinter event in Mordenvale, Silfren expressed dismay when the singing degenerated to Sweet Molly Malone. I wrote this for her in sympathy.
[July 2002]
All the folkies are singin'
And my ears, they are ringin',
And I'd rather be drinkin'
From a cider-filled cup.
And they're singin' "Sweet Molly",
'Tis a terrible folly
And I'd rather just tell 'em
To shut the hell up.
Apropos of nothing in particular... I happened to get Neil Young's song The Needle And The Damage Done in my head a couple of days ago, and this is the result: a little song about the peerage wannabes we see around the place, the ones who will move heaven and earth to help and teach and be a shining example... but only if someone important is watching. I'm sure none of you are like this, but is there anyone out there who hasn't met someone who is?
[March 2000]
I saw you fawning on the latest Queen
"And might I say you look divine in green..."
Oh, oh, the peerage dream.
You love to cook, you love to clean the hall --
But if no one's watching, you're not there at all.
Gone, gone, the peerage dream.
I sing this song because I used to hope
You'd be a leader, not a crawling dope
Sell your soul to win a silver chain...
I've seen the yearning for the peerage dream
A little hunger for some self-esteem
What's at the top, it isn't always cream...
I heard the Wild Rover at a Bardic Circle at Rowany Festival this year, and it stuck in my head. Tonight it occurred to me to filk the bugger, in the hopes that that might shift it. Here you go: a song for all those bards and minstrels who keep getting associated with one particular song (think: Llewen and The Foxy Song for the prime Lochacian example). Luckily I've never had that problem, but what the hell - it still makes for a good song.
[April 2008]
I've sung in Bards' Circles for many's the year,
And I spend all me effort on songs and good cheer.
And now I'm grown tired, my throat is quite sore
And I never will sing The Wild Rover no more.
And it's no, nay, never! (Give! Me! A! Break!)
No, nay, never, no more,
Will I sing The Wild Rover
No never no more!
I went to the feast hall, quite late in the day,
And I told them I'd gladly get up there and play
The told me me, "You're welcome, so come do your thing,
And you know just the song that we'd love you to sing..."
And it's no, nay, never! (Oh! God! Not! That!)
No, nay, never, no more,
Will I sing The Wild Rover
No never no more!
I took from me pocket a book full of song
Of filk, folk and madrigals, short and quite long
I said "I have ditties and tunes of the best
If you only will spare me that song I detest!"
And it's no, nay, never! (Sing! Some! Thing! Else!)
No, nay, never, no more,
Will I sing The Wild Rover
No never no more!
I'll go home to me tent now, and try hard to sleep,
Though the thought of that damn song will cause me to weep
For though they request it as oft times before
No I never will sing that old Trad Irish bore!
And it's no, nay, never! (Dub! Lin! Ers! Suck!)
No, nay, never, no more,
Will I sing The Wild Rover
No never no more!
I just found this lurking in a notebook. It's about the new-this-year Rowany Festival site at Glenworth Baths Swamp Valley Baths, and it's to the tune of the theme from Red Dwarf.
[Easter 2008]
It's damp outside,
Rain kind of everywhere
Everything
To excess
Fungus grows
In between my toes
Mud, mud, mud
In my blood, blood, blood
I'd rather not
Drown on the tourney field
Breastplate, helm
And water wings.
Give me dust —
Sunburn, if you must:
Mud, mud, mud
Is a dud, dud, dud...
This is part of my occasional series of anthems for various groups, along with The Bacchus Woods Anthem and Songs Of The West. Torlyon's mercenary army (ie their entire roster of fighters) wanted something to sing on the way to battle, and this filk of Men Of Harlech suited them nicely.
[1998?]
Torlyon, your mercenary
Army is so big and scary,
Not a single girl or fairy:
Golly, they're so strong!
In their blue and silver armour
They make such a panorama.
Victory is in their karma,
Losing would be wrong.
Torlyon, your army
Fight as if they're barmy!
Off they go to chop the foe
To little bitty slivers of salami!
Baronies are full of liars,
Also cantons, ports and shires.
Only Torlyon inspires
Such a mighty throng!
Torlyon, now stop your drinking!
Hear the foemen's armour clinking!
They are very likely thinking
They will win the day!
Hear them boast before the battle.
See their shiny sabres rattle.
You shall chop them down like cattle,
Make them run away!
Torlyon, attack them!
Plunder, raid and sack them!
Fire away the trebuchet
And batter, wallop, lacerate and whack them!
When they think they'll win the fight you
Show no mortal men can blight you:
Lionheart himself would knight you,
If he lived today.
Torlyon, of all the stories
Told of mighty armies' glories
None have caused such mad furores
As the ones of you.
Arthur, Saladin and Caesar,
When compared to you all these are
Not as butch as Saint Teresa;
Barely worth a sou!
Town of foggy weather
Breeds 'em tough as leather
None can dream to best the team
That battles, parties, eats and drinks together!
More will fall with every minute
Have no doubt that you will win it...
Long as there's some money in it,
Torlyon wins through!
Some years ago I was at a court, almost certainly in Rowany, up the back mucking around with Uncle Tom, aka Llewen the Unruly. We were both old farts, of course, so sitting quietly in court was not what we cool kids did. But one Gui de Bragelonne, now Baron Gui von Oberhausen of Rowany but back then just a fresh-faced collegian, stood up to make a presentation. I'm not sure what it was now, but when he was finished speaking there wasn't a dry eye in the hall. Llewen leant over to me and sotto vocéd in his best Darth Vader voice: The Dream is strong in this one.
I've always wanted to write a song about that, and this is it. Alienora is responsible for the fact that it's a filk of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah...
[September 2008]
I saw there was a royal court
Where heralds spoke and stewards talked
But I don't really care what kings are doing.
I stood up back with Uncle Tom
He muttered snark, I played along,
Ignored the king, had fun with Uncle Llewen
Uncle Llewen, Uncle Llewen
Uncle Llewen, Uncle Llewen
When Gui got up with a little speech
I didn't care to hear him preach --
But something in his tone was worth reviewing:
He spoke of honour, friendship, truth,
His words so wise despite his youth,
And on his lips a smile had Uncle Llewen
Uncle Llewen, Uncle Llewen
Uncle Llewen, Uncle Llewen
Young Gui a simple gift had made
I don't recall now (memories fade)
Exactly what -- but no one there was booing.
I watched him giving his gift away,
I found no snarky thing to say
In a hall beside a glowing Uncle Llewen
Uncle Llewen, Uncle Llewen
Uncle Llewen, Uncle Llewen
He whispered, with his trademark tact,
His judgement on this simple act,
I laughed, but he was right, there's no undoing:
In deepest voice, he said: "The Dream
Is strong in this one", eyes agleam
And every word was true from Uncle Llewen
Uncle Llewen, Uncle Llewen
Uncle Llewen, Uncle Llewen
Uncle Llewen, Uncle Llewen
Uncle Llewen, Uncle Llewen
I'd had the idea for this for a long time, but it came up on my randomized MP3 player so I put work off for a few minutes and actually wrote it. It's in honour of the old wet Rowany Festivals, in particular the first one at Tarra, and it's to the tune of John Lennon's Watching The Wheels.
[November 2004]
People say it's raining, running round and frowning,
Well they're hiding inside the tavern, to save them from drowning
When I say that I'm OK, well they treat me like I'm insane,
"Surely you'd be better off getting inside from the rain?"
People say it's awful, washing their fun away,
Well they said there was perfect drainage, but now they just run away
When I tell them that I like the rain, as it washes 'cross the sky
"Don't you miss the mundane world, where at least you can be dry?"
I'm just sitting here watching the tents all float away
I really don't mind when it's damp
No mindless rat race for a merry few days
I just had to come and camp
Oh, people walking sadly, so disillusioned,
Well I tell them there's no panic, that's my conclusion
Well they shake their heads when they see my smile, and have to ask me why
I tell them my best pick-up line: "did you know my bed is dry?"
I'm just sitting here watching the tents all float away
I really don't mind when it's damp
No mindless rat race for a merry few days
I just had to come and camp
I just had to come and camp
I just had to come and camp
What a difference five years of Easter drought makes! We all got to the new Festival site and this strange translucent wet stuff began falling from the sky and everyone went berko. This is to the tune of We All Stand Together by Paul McCartney, about that.
[April 2009]
Frogs:
(Camp camp camp
Camp camp camp
Camp, camp-camp-camp-SPLOSH!)
Dame or serf, squire or King,
Festival's here, let the party begin
Tents are pitched, garb's unpacked
We all dread the weather...
Frogs:
(Camp camp camp
Camp camp GLOOP!)
Drink your ale, watch a fight;
Handsome wench flirts with a beautiful knight;
'Way on high, clouds float by:
We all dread the weather.
La-
Drenching our tents in the night
Drip drip drip splash
Wake in the night,
Tent looks a fright...
Sail or swim, boom or bust,
One thing is certain: it's better than dust!
Feet in boots, boots in bags...
We all dread the weather.
We all dread the weather!
Just when we thought we'd never host another Western event, the inanities of US foreign policy caught up with the lovely Crown Princess Portia and she was deported to Australia. Thus, our final Twelfth Night investiture became her Coronation. This is to the tune of Californication, which I'm pleased with because I always wanted to filk it.
[January 2002]
Fear of foreign violence
Leads to widespread consternation
Customs paranoia
Causes one more deportation
And now it's up to us to have
A Western Coronation
Off to the edge of the world despite
Her pleas and protestation
The birds may fly in the sky so high
But she's stuck in another nation
But don't you fear, we'll do it here
Your Western Coronation
Call your subjects to the Court
And ask them to be quiet
You've never been a real live queen
But you're sure you'd love to try it
This lass from the sands
Now rules our lands
In our Western Coronation
It's our Western Coronation
Stewards are there pulling out their hair
It's a hell of a situation
The howling breeze in the burning trees
Could ignite a conflagration
And ain't that great, the peers are late
To the Western Coronation!
The hall's all booked, the food's been cooked,
It's a jewel of coordination
We hope like hell it'll all go well
Or there may be assassinations!
The schedule's just been blown away
By Western Coronation
Back in AS 29
We had a celebration
The only time that Lochac might
Have this kind of excitation
How could we have known
But history's shown
Another Western Coronation
Another Western Coronation
Our final Western Coronation
Oh, come on, you have to filk Queen songs. What else is talent for?
[early 1993]
There's no fight for us
There's no war for us
What is this hall that fills our view
Yet calls aloud to us?
Who wants to fight forever
Who wants to fight forever
There's our chair for us
It's all provided for us
This hall has plainly tons of dinner
Set aside for us
Who wants to fight forever
Who wants to fight forever
Who wants to bruise forever, oh
When food is nigh
But touch my bowl with your meat
Feed me more, let me drink and eat
And we can stay forever
And we can feast forever
Forever put food away
Who wants to fight forever
Who wants to fight forever
Forever chow down today
(Who'd beat Sir Agro anyway?)
One of our Knights acquitted himself exceptionally well in the boat races at Rowany Festival. The Baron Politarchopolis asked me to write something telling the story. I'd like to thank Mr Bazza McKenzie for help with many of the synonyms. For the benefit of our american cousins, feel free to use this as a sort of a very specific thesaurus. This is to the tune of Shake Your Tailfeather, words & music by O Hayes, Rice & Williams.
[May 1998]
Well I heard about the king that you've been drinkin' with
At Rowany, Monday night
So why did you race him, Petey?
You knew that it wasn't right!
Well I know that the sculling there is overdone,
And the fighters like to have some fun
But if that was how you wanna treat Faby,
I guess you'll never get a pelican
Pelican (U-huh)
Pelican (Pelican)
Pelican
Pelican
Pelican
Aaah
Chunder, chuckle chuckle chuckle chuckle baby
Hey you gonna lose your lunch
Perk it up baby
Hey you gonna throw your voice
Bend over let me see ya yawn in technicolor
Bend over let me see ya yawn in technicolor
Come on let me see ya yawn in technicolor
Come on let me see ya yawn in technicolor
Aaah
Come on, come on Petey
Come on, yeah, come on Pete, all right
Do the puke
Do the spit
Call for Ralph
And have a hurl
A liquid laugh
Aaah, and do the big spit
Hey hey, regurging
And what about the spew
Do the talk to Jesus
Wanna talk to Huey too
On the porcelain phonebooth
Come on let's do the yawn
Aaah
Chunder, chuckle chuckle chuckle chuckle baby
It's been absolutely ages since I've written something rude about knights, so here's a filk of the Beach Boys' California Girls.
[3 February 2003]
Well, Stormhold knights are fast, they do their thinking with their sticks
And Anealan knights, with their quirky ways, they add some flavour to the mix
The Innilgarder whitebelts really love to have a fight
And the Rowan-Knights, with their household ties, they'll hardly ever hit you light
I wish they all could be Ynys Fawrian
I wish they all could be Ynys Fawrian
I wish they all could be Ynys Fawrian
Knights...
Polit has all those chefs and so their knights all get so wide
River Haven knights, beneath the blazing sun, prefer to just go home and hide
I've been all round this Kingdom and I've met all kinds of knights
And they'd all be improved if they'd just make a move to down among the southern lights
I wish they all could be Ynys Fawrian
I wish they all could be Ynys Fawrian
I wish they all could be Ynys Fawrian
Knights...
Billy Joel does a song called Scenes From An Italian Restaurant, which contains another song inside it, Hamlet play-in-a-play style. The song is about Brenda and Eddy, a couple of Greasers (think Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta) who got married. It came to me that the names could be trivially changed to refer to a certain Duke and Duchess, and then the rest of the song just sort of wrote itself. The premise is simple: suppose the King and Queen skipped town with all the money in the kingdom coffers; who would you call to take over?
[March 2007]
Yo-yo and Aeddy had their Duchies already
When the King and the Queen ran away.
Something to do with a loft for two near the beach in Calais...
Nobody knew how to sort it,
Oh, and all of the funds had been "misreported":
We never knew they were gone till the cops all arrived.
Surely, Yo-yo and Aeddy would step in to help us survive!
Yo-yo and Aeddy took over already, with the Officers all in a tizz:
Yo-yo was good with the reigning and ruling and all of that biz,
And everyone looked up to Aedward,
Strong as an oak and he's not just dead wood;
We're better to have them in charge in our moment of strife...
Oh, so there we were, crowning Yo-Yo and Aeddy for life.
So, they planned a republic with fair elections
And a couple of brave new frontiers;
A competent team that they picked from the cream
Of the crop of the best volunteers;
But it started to fall when the lawyers got called,
And they just didn't count on the Peers...
Well they ruled for a while in their very cool style
But it's always the same in the end:
A tourney was fought and was won by the sort
Who you knew would be back there again
And the King and the Queen took up their routine,
And the Duchess and Duke said "Amen".
Yo-yo and Aeddy had kept it all steady
And we managed to prosper and thrive;
It was kind of a shame that it's only a game,
But they both had their lives.
But next time it falls in a big heap,
Yo-yo and Aeddy will once more dig deep.
Trying to keep them away would be hard to contrive:
Oh, and that's all I know about Yo-yo and Aeddy:
Any disaster, they're hangin' round ready,
And there we'll be, crowning Yo-Yo and Aeddy for life.
Sometimes I get a tune stuck in my head -- an earworm, as it's called. I find the best way to deal with it is to filk it. So when Warren Zevon's Roland The Headless Thompson Gunner wouldn't go away, it's what I did. This is in honour of the Queen at the time, the lovely and slightly worrying Yolande Kesteven.
[May 2006]
Yolande was a Laurel from the Barony Number One,
With her red pen at the ready, correcting to be done.
The crown was won in Rowany on a hot and sweaty day
Now they've set out for the Crossroads to lead the passion play.
The eastern isles and southern were bent and bound for war
With their sabres all a-rattle, guarding the shore.
The bandits in the meanwhile were watching all with glee
They planned to take the kingdom and to wipe out the royalty.
Yolande the Queen of Lochac
Yolande the Queen of Lochac
Her subjects thus divided by fear and disrespect,
She had no standing army her kingdom to protect
So the Ypotryll was drafted to raise a mighty band
The children of all of Lochac fighting for the land.
Yolande the children's Queen of Lochac
[Time, time, time for a better kind of war]
The kingdom's grandest Dame
[The guard stand fast for Yolande, till they need to stand no more]
You could all hear her army marching, singing as they came
With their banners raised, and shouting Yolande's name
With their banners raised, and shouting Yolande's name
Yolande searched the Crossroads for the men who'd steal her throne
She found them on a Sunday, in a fortress built of stone
Disguised as knights and camouflaged, they didn't fool her guard
And they blew those blasted bandits from there to Innilgard!
Yolande the children's Queen of Lochac
Yolande the children's Queen of Lochac
Yolande the children's Queen of Lochac, talking about the Queen
Yolande the children's Queen of Lochac
The eternal Queen of Lochac will never quite depart
(No matter what the rules say) from every child's heart
In Mordenvale, in Ynys Fawr, in Southron Gaard and Stormhold,
The name of Queen can only mean the short but mighty Dame named Yolande.
Although I don't have much of a knack for making up original tunes, occasionally I manage it. Even more occasionally I remember the tune and can sing it back. That's not always the case, sadly.
If you want to know the tune for any of these, the only course is to track me down and get me to sing it for you. I have a personal taboo against ever letting my singing voice be recorded, so I'm kind of handicapped in the whole getting-a-recording-career area. Hey ho.
One of the highlights of the beige, portaloo-avoiding marathon that men call Festival is the Children's Battle. Once more and it will be an SCA Tradition! Basically, it's an opportunity for the underage munchkins of the kingdom to beat up on any knights foolish enough to volunteer. This year, naturally, I wrote a song about it.
[April 2007]
The children held the valley, the children held the fort
The knights held a meeting and they wouldn't cut it short.
So the children stood and taunted, the children stood and cheered
Till the knights stopped talking and they finally appeared.
And the children said...
Are you my Daddy?
Are you my Daddy?
Are you my Daddy?
Is what they said.
Are you my Daddy?
Are you my Daddy?
Are you my Daddy?
And -- oops! You're dead!
The knights tried it frontal, they tried it to the side
They tried their raps and snaps and taps, they tried it and they died
The children threw their missiles, with quite unearthly skill
Their swords in mighty concert flew and gave the knights their fill
And the children said...
The knights were all outnumbered, out-angled and outclassed.
But knights are pretty sneaky when it comes down to the last
They couldn't win by prowess, so they won by bribery
With bags of gold to buy it, they acquired victory!
And the knights all sang...
Who's your Daddy?
Who's your Daddy?
Who's your Daddy?
Got your fort right here!
Who's your Daddy?
Who's your Daddy?
Who's your Daddy?
Try again next year!
The funny thing about the SCA is the way we can get all fired up about political and social controversies that died out half a millennium ago. This doesn't get as nasty as the mundane equivalent, so its main purpose is entertainment. This song is a compendium of stereotypes of the sort that, if translated to Old High German, would have been quite familiar to any Frank of the court of Charles the First.
[before Easter 1996]
Well, the Scotsmen love their woolly, woolly sheep
And the Vikings shave with axes,
A Welshman's song puts anyone to sleep
And the Irish don't pay taxes.
Italians care for nothing but their hair,
Merry madmen reign in Spain,
And the only place with any sort of grace
Is the court of Charlemagne!
King Charlemagne, Right Fist of God!
King Charlemagne, Unconquered!
By main and might, in God's own sight,
The master of us all!
King Charlemagne, the Lord of Rome!
King Charlemagne, Eternal!
His strong right hand will rule this land,
'Til the skies in pieces fall!
Oh the Saxon Kings tried many silly things
To avoid their mass conversion
They need to learn in Hell they're gonna burn
If they don't stop their perversion.
The Lombards tried to win an easy ride
And they quickly found that pain
Is the only end when trying to defend
In a war with Charlemagne!
When the Fabulous Monster and I showed up at Spring Coronet in Politarchopolis, just about the first thing anyone told me was "You should have seen Edmund last week - you ought to write a song!" It seems there had been a Hunt to gather food for the Coronet feast, and Edmund had caught a unicorn! Naturally I couldn't resist.
[Spring, 1999]
When Edmund the Bastard raised his bow
The beasts of the woods would swiftly know
That their final fate was the dinner plate
Of Edmund the Archer Bastard.
When Edmund the Bastard went to see
What the woods may contain for such as he
Well he hoped to bag him a tasty stag
For Edmund the Archer Bastard.
What Edmund the Bastard saw instead
Was a beast with a horn set on its head
And a hide immune to the swift harpoon
Of Edmund the Archer Bastard.
So Edmund the Bastard asked a maid
If she knew how the beast might be waylaid
She called aloud and the great beast bowed
To Edmund the Archer Bastard.
Said Edmund the Bastard, "I'm not sure
"That a lass like her could be virgin pure."
Said the beast, "Not her, but you good sir!"
Now he's Edmund the Virgin Bastard!
To the tune of Bazza McKenzie's Chunder In The Old Pacific Sea, about Rowany Festival.
[Easter 2002]
I was down in Ynys Fawr
By the icy southern shore
But the island was deserted as could be.
So I asked a polar bear
Where they'd gone. He said, "Up there,
"Off to fight at Festival in Rowany."
Armour up, armour up,
Get your gumbie and your stick and follow me!
If you want to make a name, mate
There isn't any game
But to fight at Festival in Rowany!
So I got my camping gear
And I paid the gondolier
Double time to sail upon the open sea
And I made it to the site
In the middle of the night
Just to fight at Festival in Rowany
Oh, the wars were awful rough
'Cause the fighters do it tough
I was killed once by a eucalyptus tree.
But I came along to play
So I battled every day
And I fought at Festival in Rowany
Now the fighting's pretty cool
But I'd really be a fool
If I told you it was all there was to see
When the wars are fought and done
There's a different kind of fun
Than to fight at Festival in Rowany
Limber up, limber up,
Learn some acrobatic talents and you'll see
Many fellows like to fight
But there's better fun at night
In your tent at Festival in Rowany!
Baron Stephen decided to start up a trophy for, as I recall, baronial battles. The idea was that, every Rowany Festival, the baronies of Lochac would have a war, and the winner would receive a whopping big trophy shield thingy, on which they would paint thier device. The first year, River Haven won, and Stephen asked me to write a song in praise of them. Having recently heard Fionnbar's version of Follow Me Up To Carlow I decided to write something with a similar feel. And while I was at it, I felt like plugging the heraldic side of things a bit. Baron & Baroness River Haven were most pleased.
[Easter 1996]
Come gather an army in silver and blue,
A baron, a lady, a singer or two,
Your champions ready to battle on through
The Griffin, the Ship and the Tree.
The Griffin a challenge has issued today:
"In honour we'll meet in a mighty melee,
"The Barony's forces: the Horse of the Sea,
"The Griffin, the Ship and the Tree."
A riot of colour, a rainbow of arms,
A hundred devices displaying their charms.
The vision of unity clearly alarms
The Griffin, the Ship and the Tree.
A lady-in-waiting her mistress defends;
A bard takes a blow for his baron and friends;
United they stand till the battling ends (with)
The Griffin, the Ship and the Tree.
It wasn't ordained to be simple and sure:
They battered and battled to even the score,
But then their opponents weren't there any more:
The Griffin, the Ship and the Tree.
During the colder months, I've always thought of River Haven as my home away from home, and this sentiment was improved when my mock mother- and father-in-law took over as Baron and Baroness. Agro and Glynhavar had been B&B of RH for a long time, and I was expecting many changes when Eleanor and Hrothgar took over; as this song shows, there were changes and there weren't.
[1998?]
I travelled to the sunny north, to revel at a feast,
Expecting certain constant facts would still remain at least.
But when I reached the River's shores, I got a big surprise:
The Baron and the Baroness transformed before my eyes!
In River Haven I have found
A thing I've never seen:
That Southron Gaard's not scared of her
And he's not wearing green!
A greatly unexpected thing, for I would swear it's true,
'Twas only weeks or months ago their reign was fresh and new.
But being B&B is hard, and well they've earned their rest,
So now a brand new couple rule in fealty to the West.
In River Haven I have found
One thing remains the same:
The people all still call her Mum
And proudly bless his name.
There was a Bardic challenge at May Coronet, and one of the challenges was to write a song within 24 hours about a fighter. I chose a friend of mine whose life story within the SCA was an inspiration to minstrels everywhere. See King Horsey for the other song I wrote for that competition.
[May 1998]
The men who live in the ice and snow
Are not well known for meekness
Their names are not too often invoked
When relating tales of weakness
But of all the men in this hard, cold land
There is none so brave or bold or grand
As the fearsome, fightsome, feastsome lad
Who the snowmen know as Vlad.
Some years ago when the world was young
He acquired a reputation
By wearing stretchy orange trews
In a formal situation.
If you ask around why it caused a stir
All the old farts tell you "It's just a blur"
But you know they're jealous (human dregs!)
That he's got such shapely legs!
The knights in council gave some thought
To the Kurgan's elevation,
But when they called the vote in his name
Not a one opposed his station.
Though he's out for now with a bodgy hand,
He'll be back to rule the entire land,
And the truth will shine like a blazing sun
That there can be only one!
This one pretty much stands alone without explanation, except to say that the name "Lord McGee" comes from a line on an old TV show, which has just the right level of threat to it; there is no single Lord McGee, but a stupid number of Lords, Ladies, Masters and Mistresses who bloody well should know better. If I could turn bright green and eight feet tall, they'd stop bothering us. Until then, there's the old axiom: Meddle not in the affairs of Bards, for they are subtle and quick to anger, and your name scans to Greensleeves.
[April 2007]
Here's a newcomer come to her very first feast,
Her garb is a valiant try, at least,
Her velvet's crushed and there's miles of lace
But she's here and that's a start.
And here's the old fart Lord McGee,
With opinions he'll happily give for free,
Critiquing the newcomer to her face,
Politely breaking her heart.
And I watch as another one slips away;
Another lass won't be a Queen one day.
And I wonder if raising our standards high
Is worth maybe killing them dead.
And I ought to take Lord McGee aside,
And give him advice, maybe tan his hide,
If his arrogant air didn't leave me shy,
Then here's what I might have said:
Lord McGee don't make me angry:
You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.
Lord McGee don't make me angry:
You wouldn't like me at all.
Here's a brand new herald who's helping out,
On the tourney field, just having a shout,
His projection's crap and he mangles names,
But it's still a good first try.
And there's McGee in his shiny helm,
To explain how we do things in this realm,
And the new boy's there with his public shame,
Volunteered, now he wonders why.
And I watch as the light in his eyes goes dim;
We need more heralds but it won't be him.
And I wonder if teaching the proper ways
Is worth making everyone small.
And I ought to take Lord McGee aside,
And give him advice, maybe tan his hide,
But a minute with him makes my eyes glaze,
And I might just stand and call:
Lord McGee don't make me angry:
You wouldn't like me when I'm angry.
Lord McGee don't make me angry:
You wouldn't like me at all.
Here's a blazing fire and a healthy crowd,
All singing their guts out, strong and loud,
With Gaudete and the Stickjock song
And everything in between.
And Lord McGee, with ears assaulted,
Into the circle catapulted,
Swears that we're doing it all quite wrong,
And frequently obscene.
And I watch as some of the singers cringe,
But a few take on a darker tinge,
There's a lot of the kingdom started here,
With a song and tale or two.
So this time I take McGee aside,
And give him advice, maybe save his hide,
"Meddle with bards, have cause to fear"
Is a warning, old and true.
And Lord McGee, he made me angry:
He didn't like me when I'm angry.
Lord McGee, he made me angry:
He didn't like me at all.
Lord McGee, he made me angry:
He didn't like me when I'm angry.
Lord McGee, he made me angry...
You don't see him around any more.
Sir Bran of Lochiel is an inspiration to many a song writer. I'm particularly fond of one Greigy sings, that goes:
He got himself permission from some king or other to sail the high seas in the name of Lochac and the West. I wrote and performed this at the feast where this was announced.
[Mid-1990s sometime]
Come, batten the hatches and step the mast,
The time for lubberly living is past!
Haul up the mains'l and catch the breeze,
We'll sail on the southerly seas.
The Admiral's name is Bran,
A cunning and capable man;
Of women he's fond -
He's a natural blond,
'Though his hair colour comes from a can.
Young Caity, she aims to please,
She's the siren of southerly seas.
Better keep her away
From the caffeine today
Or she'll tittilate, torment and tease.
The bo'sun is Greigy der Gross,
He knows how the navy life goes:
When a boat or canoe
Ever comes into view,
He whips out his whistle and blows.
A delightful and very talented lass named Branwen came visiting Politarchopolis for a few months, and quite caught everyone's attention. She was a belly-dancer in her native Stormhold and assisted in the renaissance of that particular spectator sport here as well ('though Former Drill Sergeant Oonagh The Fairy did most of the work, isn't that right Mum?). I hear she's back from her national walkabout and living in Mundania, which is a tragedy. I hope she comes back, cos she was very good...
[mid-1995ish]
She came from misty Stormhold
To tour our wide beige land,
To the bustling metropolis
Of gay Politarchopolis
And took the boys in hand.
She shimmers like a silver trout,
She hovers like a dove,
She oozes grace
In her form and her face
But it's her navel that we love.
This Branwen is a dancer,
She moves like silk on heat.
She's a talented practitioner,
A harem could audition 'er:
Her belly can't be beat.
We watch her wild wiggling,
Her every lunge and thrust.
I'm trying to be celibate,
She made my headache swell a bit,
To see her is a must!
I was sitting round a fire with Sir Agro and Mistress Glynhavar, and Agro told me a story of his recent adventures in the (then) Central West. As soon as he gave me the punchline to this one, I knew there was a song in it. I went away to the tavern, sat in a corner and wrote it, and then raced back just in time to sing it for them before they went to bed.
[Easter 2002]
Sir Agro went a-roving around the Central West.
He met with Dukes and heroes, that mighty Kingdom's best
Then one day on the listfield, he found he'd met his match:
A young unbelted fighter who Sir Agro could not catch!
(And he was singing...)
He's just a random blackbelt,
While I'm a famous Knight!
It shouldn't be too difficult
To trounce him in a fight!
He's nothing but a novice,
And I've been training well...
So why's he got me feeling
Exactly like a pell?
They fought it best-of-seven; he started out OK.
It wasn't really serious, but just a bit of play.
But that unbelted fighter, he set Sir Agro straight,
With raps and snaps and loving taps at quite a frightful rate.
Sir Agro beat him three times, and crashed and died three more.
He only needed one more kill to even out the score.
But that unbelted fighter, he moved like he was oiled.
Sir Agro said, "Let's call it quits! You've fairly got me foiled!"
Much later in the feast hall, Sir Agro got to meet
That same unbelted fighter who he couldn't hardly beat:
None other than a Viscount and a Knight of Kingdom West...
Sir Agro said, "It's good to see you finally fully dressed!"
You're not a random blackbelt,
You are a famous Knight!
This might be why it's difficult
To trounce you in a fight!
You're much more than a novice,
And I've been training well...
Thank God I can stop feeling
Exactly like a pell!
In honour of a young lady with a bit of a penchant for the white-belted lads...
[Some time in 1994?]
You look at me, you see my nice white belt
You think my heart had never really felt
But I'm more than some inhuman thing,
If you don't believe me, just listen to me sing...
I'm a sensitive new-age knight
I'm a sensitive new-age knight
I feast and I fool and I fight
But I only do it if you say it's all right
You see me on the battlefield
While I'm alive I won't ever yield
And when I get you home to bed
I wanna try, baby, everything that you said
When I take you out to dine
All the world is gonna know that you're mine
Just by the smile that's on your face
And by the way that I get you to hold my mace
So come on over, let's make our plans
Now that you've found your number one man
How many children babe, you gotta decide,
Just an even half-dozen or a whole gridiron side?
You see me on the battlefield
While I'm alive I won't ever yield
And when I get you home to bed
I just want you, baby, to give me some chance
I'm a sensitive new-age knight
I'm a sensitive new-age knight
I'm a sensitive new-age knight
(But all I really wanted to be was a lumberjack)
I'm a sensitive new-age knight
I'm a sensitive new-age knight
I'm a sensitive new-age knight
(Though sometimes I see a cute boy and I just go - oh!)
I'm a sensitive new-age knight
I'm a sensitive new-age knight
I'm a sensitive new-age knight
(So I suppose a filk is out of the question?)
At Spring War in Mordenvale, 4 October AS XXXII, someone told me the story of Sir Gregory of Loch Swan, and how he fought several fighters to protect a woman fighter whose armour had gotten into a potentially dangerous state. I wrote this in his honour, because I thought that sort of thing deserved recognition in song.
[4 October 1997]
Take your shield and make your way
To where your brothers hold the day,
And fight for glory as you may;
There's none so true as Sun-Helm.
In the war of Middle and East
A hundred score a side at least
Allied against the jungle beast
The West opposed the Tyger.
The sun upon a helmet shone,
And on the shield a sable swan,
And in the wall he thundered on,
The soldier from the south land.
But when, within the Tyger's wall,
The soldier heard a lady's call,
He leapt to where he saw her fall,
Although she wore the foe's arms.
To save a single lady's life,
The soldier drew his sharpest knife,
And in the midst of storm and strife,
Defended her from all men.
They met him, by the waning light,
A guard of every belted Knight,
And An Tir's Queen, that Lady bright
Whose name, unknown, he'd fought for.
Lady Tangwystl Goch of Llanfaes or some such gaelic gibberish is a short, sweet, redhaired angel from St Ursula, quite the loveliest lady that college has ever produced (and that's saying something!). Tragically, she felt the call of Pennsic and Europe, and went off on a trip from which she has not yet returned. I wrote this in her honour.
[mid-1995?]
If only we had a thousand ships to sail upon the Western seas,
If only we had some sailor boys who wouldn't stop to pack,
For the loveliest lass in all the land has caught the wanderlust disease;
If only we had a thousand ships we'd go and get her back.
They call the lady Tangles, 'though her name's a tangle and then some more.
She's small and slight and sweetly shaped and pretty as the moon.
She's stolen hearts in every place from Bacchus Woods to Ynys Fawr,
And now she's off to steal some more, she's not returning soon.
Her hair's a golden sunset red, her eyes are wild and honey bright.
Her voice a choir of angels could, with effort, imitate.
And should the oldest, greyest priest, with manner stiff and habit white,
Perceive the lady walking by, he'll curse his vows too late.
So all you kings and princes there, in foreign lands under foreign skies,
Be gentle with our lady and be careful for her health,
For if even a single copper hair should come to harm, by Mary's eyes...
Well, she's a Lochac fighter so she'll deal with you herself!
And I'd reckon we'd need a thousand ships to sail upon the Western seas,
I'd reckon we'd need some sailor boys who wouldn't stop to pack.
For the loveliest lass in all the land has caught the wanderlust disease,
I'd reckon we'd need a thousand ships to go and get her back!
Lacking anything serious in my recent repertoire, I decided to compose an ode to a friend of mine. That it was her birthday didn't hurt either!
[22 Oct 1997]
I am Lord from the hill to the seaside
Of land rich in silver and miles,
But it all falls to nought,
And with barely a thought,
In the sun-rising when Sarah smiles.
You can sing me of lips like red roses,
But no rose so sweet could there be.
Not a flower alive
In creation could strive
To compare with the beauty I see.
I am Lord from the hill to the seaside,
With a hundred transactions and trials.
'Though I must be away,
It is here I would stay
In the sun-rising when Sarah smiles.
In the garden, a man and a woman,
And before them a singular tree.
'Twas a serpent, they say,
Tempted Adam to stray,
But I rather suspect it was she.
I am Lord from the hill to the seaside
Of land rich in silver and miles,
But it all falls to nought,
And with barely a thought,
In the sun-rising when Sarah smiles.
I went along to the Soup Feast in Politarchopolis, and since the competition was for a winter entertainment, I wrote this. Of course, you can't expect me to be totally competent (that'd be dull!) so I only finished it after the competition was over. Hey ho.
[August 2002]
I lived a while in Rowany where the best that can be said
Is the place would be a joy if half the residents were dead.
And they say the summer's lovely with the sunlight on the bay
But I found it mostly stinking hot, so I swiftly went away!
Off to...
My own home, my winter home
Where snow and mist are King,
And the ice on the trees in a midsummer breeze
Makes a lovely tinkly ring.
So to Stormhold for a holiday: I thought I'd see the town,
But it rained so much I stayed inside and listened to people drown.
And I thought I'd visit Innilgard, 'cause the ladies all are sweet
But I couldn't enjoy their company 'cause of the all-pervading heat!
I'm off to...
So I took a ride to Ynys Fawr, in the darkest month, July
Where the penguins wear their coats done up and the seas are always high
And the winters were indeed a treat, with ice and chills galore,
But the people there have got extra heads, so I must reduce their score!
So back to...
When Lorelei put on a birthday feast for Caia, one of the Arts & Sciences competitions was for a drinking song. Inspired partly by John Barleycorn, I tried for something metaphorical and simple, with an edge.
[February 2000]
By the wind and the weather
By the rain and the sun
By the seed sleeping deeply
We shall feed us every one.
For the oak in his splendour
From a seed he is grown;
From a poor fragile baby
Comes the ruler on his throne.
To the grain of the barley,
To the apples on the tree,
To the grape in the vinyard,
We shall drink in memory.
From a dream in the darkness
For our home on the sand,
We shall build us a kingdom,
We shall rule this southern land.
A true story, of the time a likely lad was taught the error of his ways in the tavern at Festival.
[After Easter, 2003]
A frisky lad he was, and of the ladies very fond,
The short and tall and in-between, the dark, the red, the blonde.
He swore he would bewitch them with his mighty magic wand.
But oh the Baron, oh the Baron, oh!
"Be mindful," said the Baron, "for there is no other way:
"Go courting with the ladies, but take heed of what they say.
"A 'yes' can be a wondrous thing, but 'nay' is always 'nay',"
Said oh the Baron, oh the Baron, oh!
"I may be young and handsome sir, where you are old and wise,
"But still I have the wit to pierce a lady's fay disguise!
"A 'no' may be upon her lips, a 'yes' within her eyes,"
Then oh the Baron, oh the Baron, oh!
And oh the Baron's hairy, hairy chin, his hairy chin!
And oh the Baron's mighty smile, his mighty tongue within!
He taught the boy his error, and he taught the boy his sin!
And oh the Baron, oh the Baron, oh!
"I'll let you speak again, for you deserve a second chance"
But still the lad was resolute, despite a nervous glance:
"A simple word should not obstruct the roadway to romance"
Then oh the Baron, oh the Baron, oh!
And oh the Baron's hairy, hairy chin, his hairy chin!
And oh the Baron's mighty smile, his mighty tongue within!
He taught the boy his error, and he taught the boy his sin!
And oh the Baron, oh the Baron, oh!
A third and final time the Baron told the boy the truth,
In due consideration of his ignorance and youth:
"To take what's not been given is an act I call uncouth."
Said oh the Baron, oh the Baron, oh!
And here the lad considered, e'er he made his third reply:
"There's more to love and courtship than the chase, I can't deny
"But when it's all considered, 'tis a game and hence a lie..."
Then oh the Baron, oh the Baron, oh!
And oh the Baron's hairy, hairy chin, his hairy chin!
And oh the Baron's mighty smile, his mighty tongue within!
He taught the boy his error, and he taught the boy his sin!
And oh the Baron, oh the Baron, oh!
So off the lad meandered on his worn and weary way
And if any saw his features this is all he had to say:
"I'm having an adjustment to my attitude today..."
And oh the Baron, oh the Baron, oh!
I started out writing poetry years before I joined the SCA, but it's harder to find an audience for that than for a song, so I switched to filk and eventually to original songs as well. But it's still useful to whip up a bit of a rhyme, so here's them.
Shortly after I was made Bard, I fell madly in love with a sweet and irresistably sexy Rowanite lass named Michelle [Hi, Michelle! Are you embarrassed yet?] As a result, I tended to spend my spare weekends travelling to forn parts instead of writing endless victory poems, and my Bardic duties suffered. This apology was my attempt to redress this lack.
[October, 1995]
Baron Steven, Lord of Rockleigh, and Mathilde, our Baroness,
As your Bard, I've struggled hard, but I confess to great distress.
For the Lord on high above, my prayers ignored, and gave a shove,
So like a hawk upon a dove, I was descended on... by love!
My lady hails from Chenonceaux, (whence came a Rowanite we know!)
But lives in thrall within the hall of Blessed Ursula, to scrawl
A thousand theses, big and small; thus to this saint she gives her all.
And 'though her father earns a rather rightly royal wage for toil,
And she wants for very little, in the days of her committal
To her study, clearly it'll make my wallet old and brittle
As I ride the countryside, to be beside my loving... girlie.
So the task you kindly asked that I perform; to whit, to form
A poem, song or epic long, for every feast until I've ceased
To be your bard, is getting hard. But never fear! For you I'm here,
I hold my joyful duties dear, and for the year I'll stay sincere
To all I vowed the night I bowed and said aloud, to serve I'm proud.
So in the days and feasts to be, when misty haze enshroudeth me,
And any phrase of poetry I cannot raise, and muses flee,
I shall endeavour, now and ever till forever, to be clever,
Writing rhymes to suit the times, if you meantimes forgive my crimes.
Lady Filippa di Genevra Francesca was Chirurgeon to the Principality when I first joined the SCA, and at my first Rowany Festival she gave this collegium on medieval diseases during one of the last feasts ever held at the Festival.
[Easter 1992]
Chirurgeons, while they like to keep it quiet, are more than merely leech-infested quacks.
They have a certain skill - so don't deny it - for giving people sudden heart attacks.
A very good example, fairly recent, is Filippa, Chirurgeon at the time;
A lady with a knack I call indecent, for running rather graphic pantomime.
It happened, through an aggregate of factors, that Filippa was called upon to speak
On antiquated illness, using actors; a lesson both amusing and unique.
She gathered some accomplices together, and gave them all a list of what she had:
Diseases to be acted, hell for leather, and symptoms clearly labelled, good and bad.
And thus, with little formal preparation, began an epic not to be ignored;
For seeking to expand our education, she guaranteed that none of us were bored.
It started, as the people sat at dinner, when Morag brought her husband to the hall:
The unsuccessful Duncan, Scottish sinner, with wounds received that morning in a brawl.
Chirurgeon's help was useless, he diminished; the wound was too severe, his life was done;
His wife however, clearly wasn't finished: her loud lamenting deafened everyone.
Then Elenora rose, and started running, afflicted by the dread St Vitus Dance,
With fingers made of sausage, truly cunning, ejected as she stumbled in a trance.
And Mungo of the Rock, a noble fighter, upon a famous bridge had been harpooned.
He wished he'd merely died, the sorry blighter, when Lady Fili cauterised the wound.
But all the noise had roused a certain Laurel, our autocrat, the Mistress Marguerite
Who found the doc and had a mighty quarrel, asserting all this acting wasn't meet.
So Filippa replied, all posh and plummy, describing all the sickness she'd ignored:
Venereal disease, and upset tummy, and poisoning from food, to be abhorred.
But when the Lady Laurel heard the latter, she clutched her throat and died upon the sand.
An unrehearsed and unexpected matter, the sign that this was getting out of hand.
For suddenly a leper, quite at random, approached amid the general disarray,
And all of Fili's table mates, in tandem, descended to the ground and slid away.
And here was Martin's cue - the storm was rising. He strode toward the Prince and Viscountess
And showed the sores (a trick of his devising) of scrofula, a source of great distress.
The cure was to be touched by someone royal, and Elfinn wasn't pleased to fit the bill
His guard, a man both menacing and loyal, reminded Martin dead was worse than ill.
He wasn't moved; he begged for Elfinn's finger, to touch the sore and make his body clean.
He did, as custom said, but didn't linger: the Lady Rowan's face was turning green!
And when the prince at last removed his digit, the sores, all made of putty, came away.
The Viscountess, discreet, began to fidget, and asked to be excused without delay.
This episode, so trying for the gentry, was nonetheless occasion for a smile:
To take a topic, one so elementary, and make it so alluring spoke of style.
But never underestimate the rabble, the Lady Fili quickly came to see:
As certain noises rose above the babble, the whole event approached an apogee.
Sebastian, who sat at Fili's table, was first to stand, to cough a bit, and die,
Then Gillian, her knees a bit unstable, she also coughed, departed with a sigh.
Then every diner sitting in her section, contracted (all at once) pneumonic plague,
Except for one, who smiled in her direction, and said "I feel all right, though somewhat vague."
So peace arrived, for maybe half a second, till Alistair appeared in tartan dress,
And said, "I got a spider here, I reckoned, it's sittin' in me sporran -- more or less."
Another voice, from over by the Eric, concurred with this: "Tarantula!" it screamed,
The crowd (who love a dance) became hysteric, as with a thousand bugs the tavern teemed.
So up they got, the spider-bit and dying, and up they got, the mindless hangers-on,
And danced the tarantella, fairly flying, away across the darkened plain and gone.
And Filippa, Chirurgeon, stood and waited, till all the noise and chatter died away,
"So that was my collegium," she stated. "I hope you learnt a thing or two today."
Many years ago when the world was young, before sobriety and theses attacked and rendered the Horde boring, Alaric Longshaft was famous for his tendency to drop trou at the slightest whim. After he threatened to this one more time, I composed this heartfelt plea.
[late 1998]
There's a lot of things that people do to hurt their fellow men
There's a history of horrors in the history of time;
There are holocausts and pogroms, there is genocide, and then
There's another, even more uncouth and unforgiven crime...
You can cover me in marmalade and throw me to the ants
You can knee me in the goolies, you can tell my Mum I'm gay,
You can stick a firecracker in my nicest Sunday pants,
Oh, but save me from the hordesman with his privates on display!
You can dress in brown with epaulets and cheer the Master Race;
You can wear a hood and burn a cross upon a Southern lawn;
You can ethnic cleanse your neighbours from a hidden Baltic base;
But there's still a greater evil than all other evils born...
You can crush, with tanks, your students for their democratic dreams;
You can gas the poor Malaysians so they really know the score
You can even hassle presidents for sexcrimes now, it seems;
But I beg you, don't let Alaric reveal his bits once more!
It was my tradition to give, as a prize in the Fighter Auction Tourney at Rowany Festival, a voucher for "one poem, ode or song in style and period as chosen by the bearer". She Moves So Perfectly is another song composed as a result of this; this one was for Hanbal, in honour of Utë von Tangermunde.
I also did her a limerick:
A fencer from Stormhold named Utë
Fought off with a foil every suitor
Till Hannibal came
And he called off her game,
Explaining, "Together, we're cuter!"
[Easter 1999]
A daffodil grows beneath the sun, whose golden face
Entices the bee to wander nigh on golden wing.
He gathers within his tiny hands the golden trace
Of honey that is, of all the world, the sweetest thing.
But honey is second in sweetness,
The bee is the second in art,
The sun is the second in warmth and light,
Compared to the gold of this lady's heart.
The eagle, the lord of all the air, with golden eye
He watches the tiny dragonfly, whose golden dance
Will summon the dawn of every day, the golden sky,
And fill it with joy and nimbleness in bright romance.
But the eagle is second in grandeur,
The dragonfly's second to start,
The dawn is the second in joyfulness,
Compared to the gold of this lady's heart.
But honey is second in sweetness,
The bee is the second in art,
The sun is the second in warmth and light,
Compared to the gold of this lady's heart.
Presented to Their Excellencies, Torg and Lindoret, Baron and Baroness of Rowany, at Their Midwinter Feast, AS XXX. I was made Bard of Politarchopolis when the Barony was created, and the first bit of poetry I performed outside the Barony's bounds nearly started a war. Thankfully, Torg and Lindoret overruled the rabid demands of their populace (no doubt driven to violence by envy at my own Barony's far-superior feasts!) and sent back friendly greetings instead of my corpse.
Nowadays, Rowany's feasts are much improved in quantity (quality, I admit, was never an issue). But if I want a good feed, I'll still go home to Polit.
[July 1995]
Unto Torald, goodly moralled,
wise and well-versed Knight of Hawkhurst,
and Lindoret, who they all say
has all mirth in, of Bryn Myrddin,
do Lord Stephen, fair and even
(yet stick-jockly) Lord of Rockleigh,
and Mathilde, graceful, skilled
wife and patriot of Mynheniot
send their greeting to this meeting
here in Rowany, from their Barony.
May your feast attain -- at least! --
standards fit to suit Polit!
Someone complained about one of my heraldic puns on the Shambles; this was my response. I can count twenty-two heraldic puns herein; I'm particularly fond of the final one.
[1998?]
I stare in Or at potent fools,
Those sinister perverted gules,
Who'd bend and counter all the rules
If proper heralds weren't in charge.
They would disable every law,
And cross their fingers to be sure,
To undermine our ways, and more!
I pale to see them still at large!
An ordinary man cannot
Do vairy much to stop the rot
I must confess it makes me hot
To see this conflict happening!
So mullet over, learn the truth:
Argentleman can't be uncouth!
Take arms upon the field, forsooth!
(And bill your invoice of the King.)
As I was sitting at a table at the St Blasius Day music collegium, Prince Kurgan wandered past and did a double-take when he saw my rhyming dictionary. He opened it, and noted some interestingly ironic rhymes, then demanded that I take those rhymes and write a poem for him. I did so, but of course as pioneering poet for this new, sestina-like style of poem, I claimed naming rights for the invention. I named it a Huraiwa, after Kurgan's princess and wife.
[February 1999]
If a leader would avoid the name of Hitler,
He should carefully compose his manifesto.
He should ask a man of words, some lingo-whittler,
To help compose and, pretty soon, hey presto!
He'll have his dissertation, his theology,
To guide all men, both fit and amputee;
As close to truth as bumps are to phrenology,
And thus he'll lead like Queen Hippolyte.
Despite hypoglycaemia and a disastrous mis-allocation of resources (they let non-Politarchopolans do the cooking!!!), I managed to perform this prologue and epilogue to The Judgement Of Paris during the one-and-only Purgatorio, AS (let me think now...) XXIX, in Goulburn. The middle bit was written by someone else and is not included here.
[July 1994]
We live, we Western nobles, in an age
When Glory signs her name to every page;
When Hades enters not in man's affairs,
For death the tilting jousters never snares.
We seek, desire for vict'ry's gains above,
The triple crown of honour, truth and love,
And show, in all our striving for this goal,
Resemblance to another, older soul.
For Paris, son of Priam, Prince of Troy,
Was all we yearn to be, 'though yet a boy;
To truth he strode, to honour through his dread,
To love above all else, his labours led.
The mighty Zeus, of Attic gods the king,
Was ne'er immune to all the lure of spring;
The daughter of a sea god caught his eye,
So begged he then the Fates to verify.
But Clotho, Atropos and Lachesis,
Presented their divine analysis,
"This woman in her time shall bear a son,
"Whose greatness shall exceed his father's own!"
Thus warned, the god of all Olympus said,
His lady love a mortal king should wed.
He set about a wedding feast to plan,
With guests alike both god and mortal man.
The roll of guests extended from the floor,
To high above the sky, a mile or more;
For all the gods that ever were alive,
Were asked to come; or all, that is, save five:
The god of war's attendants were denied,
And from their war-wracked pallisades they cried:
"Revenge upon the groom and bride to be,
"For slighting such an evil clan as we!"
Thence Deimos and his brother Phobos, fright,
Made dread arachnids crawl from out the night.
But Athene took the time to intervene,
Removing them before they could be seen.
So Pallor, terror lord, and Metus, fear,
With menace, caused a she-bear to appear,
But Zeus, whose love Callisto was a bear,
Invited her to talk, and take the air.
So Eris, worst of Ares' thwarted aides,
Repaired unto the Hesperian glades,
Where found she one last apple made of gold,
Which had by chance escaped the hero's hold.
Upon the apple's skin these words she wrote:
"This apple to the fairest I devote".
And last, her evil scheming near complete,
She left it at the mortal bridegroom's feet.
The noisy crowd assembled was becalmed
As by the apple's glister they were charmed,
Until the goddess Hera, shaking free,
Retrieved it, stating, "That will be for me!"
"For thee!" Athena screamed. "'Tis not indeed!
"The fairest this is for, canst thou not read?
"The fattest of us all, thou mayst be,
"The fairest, none may doubt, is clear to see!"
"If clear it is," - now Aphrodite spoke -
"Then all we here grow weary of thy joke.
"For me the apple's meant, so let it be."
And fought they long and cruel, these ladies three.
Then Eris spoke, in servant's garb disguised,
To Zeus, who stood amidst the crowd, surprised.
"How then," she asked, "might peace be made to reign?
"Has Zeus himself surrendered to the strain?"
"By Me!" he swore. "This farce will end at once!
"No piece of fruit shall make of Zeus a dunce!
"Let... Hermes find a judge to this dispute,
"Lest all the gods be cast in disrepute!"
"If I," said Hermes then, "must fill the role
"Of arbiter for such a rigmarole,
"My chances for survival will be thin,
"The losers in their wrath shall do me in!
"But let me find a sorry mortal dupe,
"To do the job - and save me from the soup!
"A simpleton, perhaps, whose life is dull;
"He'll miss it less than one whose days were full!"
And Hermes, with the goddesses in tow,
Flew off to find some pastoral tableau,
Where stood a shepherd boy; and Hermes said,
"This lad will do, to judge them my stead.
"A minor Prince, of little consequence,
"Reduced to guarding sheep for some offence.
"He'll make a choice, and when the winner's crowned,
"The losers' rage will put him in the ground!"
This got performed at the famous Rowany AS XXVII, with the entire female population of Rowany (or so it seemed) acting it out -- and running to the waiting arms of the Scarlet Women, led by Kiriel, at the last line.
[Easter 1993]
His Highness, John of Skye, had made it heard
That certain local matters need attention.
Lindoret, Baroness, thus gave her word
To bring about the requisite correction.
For Rowany, the jewel of Lochac's crown
Was not the most unblemished of abodes
The ladies there had gathered great renown
In numerous disgraceful episodes.
But she whose very name commands respect
Achieved the goal with scads of time to spare;
Restoring all the standards you'd expect,
To leave the town as pure as mountain air.
The ladies of disputed moral grain
Are gone from there, by Baroness' decree.
And all the noble lady let remain
Is innocence, and gentle chastity.
The Triple-F of Rowany, forsooth,
Is Feasting, yes, and Fighting, plain to see;
But now we see restored the proper truth:
The final F should stand for Finery.
And if you wish to know the lady's trick
I now reveal her method; it was this:
All women too impure and heretic
Were banished - to Politarchopolis!
Subtitled The Odyssey of Homer, A Tale of Love, Adventure and Sub-Standard Navigation Near Ancient Greece, this was the script of the play I and two others performed for Stephen and Mathilde's wedding feast. Rob played all the women and baddies, including the Cyclops (with a hand placed solemnly over one eye), and his lovely wife whose name escapes me played Odysseus.
[September 1998]
Odysseus, who fought the Trojan War,
Was master of the sword and axe and knife,
But still he had one single, fatal flaw:
He couldn't steer a ship to save his life.
He fought the Trojan War with might and main,
But Ithaca was home to him, not Troy.
So now he yearned to see his wife again,
And thought he'd take a shortcut - silly boy!
He first got stuck, and strangely feel asleep
Upon the lotus eaters' misty isle.
He next got trapped by Cyclops and his sheep,
But bested him in true heroic style.
Aeolus helped him trap the roguish breeze,
But then they all escaped -- what rotten luck.
And Circe turned them all, despite their pleas,
From human form to pig, or cow, or duck.
The Sirens sang, and drove them all insane;
With wax inside their ears they battled free.
Charybdis tried to whirl them down the drain,
While Scylla tried to eat them all for tea.
Apollo told them, "All these cows are mine!"
The men, however, fancied steak, so: ZAP!
Then shipwreck dunked them all into the brine;
Odysseus alone survived this trap.
Odysseus upon a rock was stuck,
Without a boat to take him home to Greece.
But Zeus was rather fond of him, by luck,
And right away secured the man's release.
Telemachus, his son, arrived by chance,
And told him news of Ithaca, his throne.
For several men, all scheming for romance,
Had realised that his wife was all alone.
He dressed in rags, all smelly and unkempt,
And watched the suitors cruelly bickering.
They treated him with undisguised contempt,
For no-one knew this beggar was their king.
Penelope, his lovely wife, decreed
A contest would be held within the town.
The winner, she reluctantly agreed,
Would gain her hand in marriage, and the crown.
The suitors took their turns at feats of strength.
The beggar sat and let them have their fun.
And when they'd proved their skills at boring length,
The beggar stood and bested every one!
He lifted up his sword and, with a lunge,
Beheaded half, and skewered all the rest.
They had to clean them all up with a sponge,
Odysseus was proved the first and best.
It took a dozen years from out his life,
And every night his noble passion burned.
For Ithaca, his home, and for his wife:
Odysseus, the King, at last returned.
This is more-or-less the story of how the SCA began, tho the details are slightly wrong. It should've been a party, not an assignment, that inspired them to dress up. Maybe one day I'll get around to correcting it.
[June, 1993]
It started, Anno Dottus, in the West,
With students by a love of knowledge blest,
Who modelled dressed as fighters, minus horse,
To illustrate a paper for a course.
But just as they were done and due to leave
The faerie world of dream and make-believe,
A fighter (history's mute regarding who)
Decided he could make some history too.
He took a sword and struck a gallant pose,
Then whacked a fellow fighter on the nose!
The melée, unexpectedly begun,
Continued till the setting of the sun.
And once again, the next and every week,
The craze became a fashion, very chic,
As fighters took up armour, sword and shield
To reenact the ancient battle field.
But with its meteoric rise to fame,
Another unforeseen dilemma came.
So many came to heed the battle's call,
That no one had the room to fit them all.
But undeterred, they passed the helm around
To raise enough to rent a piece of ground.
But in the time when all of this was planned
The gods of strife and conflict walked the land
So noisy mobs of students waving sticks
Resembled antisocial politics!
It nearly died, before its proper birth,
Cut down by all the fear that filled the earth,
Till someone in a sympathetic frame
Said, "Maybe if your meetings had a name...
"You'd cease to be a violent student crowd
"We'd list you as a club, and that's allowed!"
Reprieve! They leapt for joy, oh sweet relief!
The beaurocratic mind surpassed belief!
But all the celebration sharply palled
When someone asked, "So what shall we be called?"
A quandary; all were stunned and no one spoke,
Till over by the door the silence broke
The voice of one, a budding authoress,
Who cleared her throat, delivered this address:
"We seek a name, some letters on a page,
"To form a living beacon for the age.
"Society we are, it's plain to see;
"Creative, more than anyone, are we;
"Anachronisms all, we're proud to say;
"The only name that fits is SCA!"
For the creation of the Barony of Politarchopolis, I composed a poem about the most controversial event in our history: the long-winded and painful process the Politarchopolans went through to register the name with the College of Heralds.
[July, 1995]
In the dark old days of Lochac, when the Berries ruled the land
And the iron heel of Rowany trampled every heart and hand,
Came a wizened, sagely greybeard with his fairly youngish wife
On a voyage to the highlands, there to start a better life.
When they came upon a river nestled in among the hills
They declared their search was over, lest they both expire of chills.
Uttered Agvar in a mighty voice: "Let Lochac know that this
"Is the newest shire in all the world, we'll call... ummm... bugger, we need a name..."
"Never mind, my darling Agvar, answered Zoran Belvedere,
"We shall find ourselves a herald who can name this new frontier."
So they called before them Dafydd, saying "Something is amiss!
"So research a proper name to give... ah, this place here... you know..."
Now the welshman known as Dafydd took the job, and he was keen,
So he asked the folks assembled, "What should such a title mean?"
Kiriel was first to answer, saying "Give me one more kiss!"
"Ah," he said, "in old Phoenician, that's Poo La Tokkoo Perloo-oss... no, doesn't really work..."
"Bugger that!" said handsome Brusi, who was newly authorised,
"We should choose a name like thunder! Leave all others traumatised!
"What's a word," he asked of Daffyd, "meaning 'Feasts and rowdiness'?"
"Well in French, the best translation is 'Per lieu ton quam pra lodde... nope, so near and yet... not quite."
They were getting fairly desperate, for the shire was growing old,
Yet it lacked a proper title for its people's hearts to hold.
"What about," said Hrolf Herjolffsen, "saying 'Ignorance is bliss'?"
"That," said Dafydd, "done in Spanish is 'Polly Tor Karoobly Spodd'... oh, that's not it at all..."
Now the folk were getting restless, for the shire by now was huge
And they grey extremely tired of the heralds' subterfuge:
"There's a lot of politicians in our fair metropolis!"
"Then in English," Dafydd answered, "that's Politarchopolis!"
I don't remember writing this. It's very crawly. But there you go.
[December, 1995]
Rowany, in fables old you stand
Astride this mighty land,
From snow to desert sand.
In peace, in war, in rain, in sun, in song,
We sing your praise,
The heart of history.
Baronies in countless numbers swell,
And all who in them dwell
Have heard these legends tell
Of art, of skill, of warmth, of joy, of song,
We sing your praise,
The heart of history.
Long beyond this simple present day,
All else may pass away;
This cornerstone will stay,
To stand, to strive, to work, to build, to sing,
We sing your praise,
The heart of history.
This is a story of the Scarlet Women's Saint Valentine's Day Feast of Anno Societatis XXVII, February, 1993. Prince John and Princess Gabrielle really got into the festivities, possibly in a vain attempt to drown in debauchery the memory of their having presented me with my Award of Arms that night.
[February 1993]
In old Politarchopolis, one night in every year,
The Scarlet Women gather for a feast
To honour saintly Valentine, who all of them hold dear,
They gather, several dozen at the least.
But once a certain royal pair, whose names I shan't reveal
Arrived, in all their splendour, on the night,
And danced a bit and held a court and shared the splendid meal
And had some fun, as surely was their right.
And when the Prince and Princess X (disguised by pseudonyms)
Had finished all the business of the court
They spent a fair amount of time describing all their whims
The very clear and single-minded sort.
The Lady asked for any men to come before the throne
Whose tights were tight, and tunics nice and short.
The Lord requested bodices without delay be shown,
But only those providing scant support.
The Lady asked for brazen men with codpiece overstuffed;
The Lord requested cleavage, bold and sweet.
And Scarlet Women, said the Prince, would never be rebuffed;
And Scarlet Men the Princess yearned to meet.
So through a night of lemons cloved and hankies dropped at will,
The Royal couple had their whims achieved,
And set a standard hard to top, with rare and practiced skill,
And spent a night that scarce can be believed.
The SCA mailing list, named The Shambles by Balrog some years ago, is a mixed blessing. The mixture is caused mostly by a small but incredibly clueless collection of idiots with all the net.savvy of George W. Hey ho.
[2002]
The mailing list known as the Shambles
Was one of Del's sillier gambles:
That in our Society
He'd find some sobriety --
When mostly, they're thicker than brambles.
You'd think, after decades of practice
This List would have much to attract us --
Instead it's a mass
Of the selfish and crass:
And as tools go, it's pretty well cactus.
The List isn't mine to be judging;
I tried, but I hated the drudging.
I gave up control
For the the good of my soul --
So accept this as nothing but nudging.
The Earth is a planet of wonder;
With so many spells to fall under.
If your contribution
Is mail pollution --
You'd best tear your modem asunder.
I and a few other Politarchopolans had the idea of starting a guild or society within the SCA for singers and poets, with the idea that it might encourage a little more performace. We worked out a charter and set up a mailing list. Unfortunately, it sunk, partly because a couple of the members insisted that any sort of hierarchy or ranking system was entirely too medieval for their twentieth century tastes, but mostly because Lochac, outside of Rowany Festival, is totally uninterested in singing unless it's being done by someone else, and even then they won't stop nattering. Bitter? Me? Naaah.
[1997]
Let the rabble cease its babble, and be silent!
Let the masters hush as fast as hunted birds!
Let the clatters of the platters now give way to other matters,
Let the chatter stop or scatter as we speak our solemn words.
In the Barony of bold Politarchopolis
In the lumpy land of Lochac, in the West,
There are groups and guilds to fit a fine metropolis,
But with minstrels, sad to say, the town's not blest.
Now there comes the sound of drums and timbrels playing;
Here a voice will loud rejoice and sing its theme;
Here the dancers take their chances with the feasting hall's expanses,
And the writers of romances join the prancers in the team!
There was once a clever dunce who rode with William,
When he fought King Harald's court on Hastings hill.
He was there, and fought with flair, and he was known as Taillefer,
Singing airs upon his mare and juggling swords -- and then got killed.
Now we beg our noble lords to grant this charter,
To the minstrels, fools and dancers everywhere:
We would like to name our group for that old martyr
And be called (I quote:)
The Worshipful Company of Minstrels, Mummers, Minnesingers and Fools,
Fabliers and Gleemen, Gauklers, Jesters, Joculators and Jongleurs,
Troubadours, Trouveres, Blacksmiths,
Dancers, Chanters, Rhymers and Cantors of Taillefer.
(It's a title whose recital isn't vital: non-grammarians
All can choose to lose the blues and simply call us Tailleferians.)
Should you grant the gift we ask, oh bravest Baron;
Should you hear our heartfelt plea, our Baroness;
Let us offer you our choice as your household's minstrel voice,
For a twelvemonth and a day to serve your court with words and play.
Use him well, this Court Minstrel; but not to keep;
When you take him, please don't break him: bards aren't cheap.
We shall wear upon our hair, or in our sporrans,
Something clear and very dear, our own device:
On a horse a man (of course), jug'ling swords with fire and force,
Singing songs and righting wrongs and bashing saxons once or twice.
When we find a welcome kind of invitation,
When the folk would share a joke or hear a song,
We shall sing, and praise our King, and dance and leap and rhyme and spring,
And bring some zing to everything, and entertain the milling throng.
We shall share good Taillefer, our inspiration;
We shall teach our skill to each inquiring heart;
We shall try until we die to train the voice and hand and eye
Of any mindful passerby who wants to ply the minstrel's art.
There is honour in the art of entertaining,
But the company shall never so require;
Should a minstrel's pride and ego need restraining,
We shall make him think his nadgers are on fire!
We shall spank those fools whose rank is false inflated;
We shall curse with violent verse the ones who boast;
We shall maim the ones who shame the minstrel martyr's mortal name
And do the same to all whose aim is to defame to our loyal host.
May god save the nasty knave who sings for silver;
God forgive the ones who live to sneak and spy;
There's no place in heaven's space for any minstrels who disgrace
Our Baron's face or who debase the company we occupy.
There it is, the most respectable of charters:
If it please you, seal it now with word and wax.
We shall sing and leap and dance and play sonatas,
Knowing well our noble Baron guards our backs.
Written for the William Marshal Feast in Stormhold, AS XXXIII. This was a fun event. Thorfinn invited me to give the toast to William Marshal, which I present here for your entertainment (if you like William Shakespeare crossed with W H Auden). The first three words elicited exactly the response I was hoping for...
[November, 1998]
Chivalry is dead! The finest rose
From England's soil now lies in bleak repose.
The paragon of Knights, the best, is gone.
What reason have we left to toil on?
In legend, from today until the end
His story will remain -- on that, depend.
Tradition yet cries out what all here knew:
No man there was as brave, no Knight as true.
Oh, was he but a man, this legend-Lord?
Is there a scroll or page that dares record
His history, in words we might retell?
Was he a child, a youth, like us as well?
He was, I say! A child indeed -- a child
Of character so sweet and face so mild
That brigands, who to hostage took the boy
Repented and returned him, chaste with joy.
A squire he was, in all his youthful trials
Combining boyish zeal with adult wiles
So skillfully, in all the arts of war,
That many disbelieved the feats they saw.
A knight, in grace, he also came to be,
A leader, both in skill and chivalry.
On tourney field and battle's bitter stage
He proved to be the model of his age.
He guided Kings, and Kings before him knelt;
His wisdom filled the land in which he dwelt.
And now, in state he lies, his long life spent;
We mourn with heavy heart and raiment rent.
The Marshal into Paradise is gone,
But we who stay behind must toil on.
And should we feel, at times, the weight of years,
Let his example lead us through our fears.
Another Bardic duty, reporting the honour bestowed upon three Politarchopolans at the Yule Feast in Rowany, when King Veniamin and Queen Aeron attended, and knighted Hugh the Little, made Kiriel a Court Baroness, and awarded Bess Haddon the Lochac Order of Grace. The style of this poem (ABABBCBCC with 5 beats to the first 8 lines and 6 to the last) is called Spencerian, after Edmund Spencer who used it in his Faerie Queene.
[Hell-Week, December 1995]
O gracious Queen, of beauty, love and grace;
O King by might and will, of all the West:
To have you travel here and take your place
Within our halls and homes, our land was blest.
For many weeks before you came to rest
Within the sea-girt bounds of these domains,
You heeded every messenger's request
As sent from Lochac's shores; and took some pains
To weigh the words we spoke within your hearts and brains.
You weighed within your hearts a score of pleas,
And listened to our every humble word,
And learned, we now perceive, from all of these
Of three specific needs we all averred.
The gentlefolk for whom such speech was heard
Were three whose fame had spread throughout the land,
The first was Hugh, the second Bess, and third
Was Mistress Kiriel; to each you planned
To grant a gift, remembrance from your very hand.
The corps of knights, O King, you called to kneel
Before you, where you held your yuletide court;
Their eyes were bright, their swords of strongest steel,
And yet, you said, their number there was short.
Before you, Hugh the Little then was brought,
And for him in the band you made a space;
And never since a tourney first was fought,
Has any knight so rightly taken up a place,
For none can doubt his fitness who have seen his face.
Belovèd Queen, since first we heard you speak,
And saw the gentle smile within your eye,
We knew, as sure as heaven loves the meek,
To you our hearts would tend until we die.
But still, within our city wallèd high,
There lives a Mistress Bess, whose heart and ways
In beauty to your own are almost nigh;
For which she heard your call, and in a daze
Was named the gracious lady, which is fitting praise.
O Majesties, your wisdom grows and thrives;
No man denies your true beatitude.
To you we give the pledge of all our lives,
And pray you think our words are never crude.
But one exists, to whom our gratitude
So greatly swells that all of us confess:
Our Mistress Kiriel we long have viewed
As worthy of our love and nothing less:
And born to be our cherished Mistress Baroness.
Oh King and Queen, I beg you, understand,
And never be offended by my song.
In coming to your distant southern land,
You travelled many weeks and struggled long;
You met a thousand subjects in a throng:
Perhaps not every face was close observed;
But hear me speak: in this I tread not wrong;
In speaking thus I know the truth is served:
You honoured three whose honour was in truth deserved.
This saga was composed in response to one Odd Oddson, who filked my Battle Of The Dyle and retold the story in an entirely inaccurate, slanderous and (worst of all!) pro-Viking manner. I called this "a blatant attempt to snatch Vik-story from the jaws of Dyle-feat".
Technical notes for fellow wordsmiths: This employs the complex ABCD-ABCD rhyme-scheme I call the Adicote Rhyme, in honour of my Baroness. You can see this scheme elsewhere, in Songs Of The West and How Is It, Why Is It, and other songs. Note the double acrostic: I'm sure you'll figure that out. The Gerard-Manley-Hopkinsesque style of the poem is my own approximation of the bizarre word-making style of early sagas; it also makes rhyming a little easier, which is important given the bloody alliteration. I think this is the only way to get a complex rhyme scheme and alliteration to work together.
[August 1998]
Horns on his head-top Heathen sea-hood
All of his actions Only for airs-taking
Growing no grain-crop Regarding no god-good
Aimless attraction Not earning honour-making
Rude on the brine-road Young raiders and reevers
Turning their toy-boats Here toward town-shores
Heartless unhallowed At heart hell-believers
Early their evil-gloats Taint all our creed-lores
How in our heart-strings This horror here stands
Over our earnest Entreaties to angel-home
Raidings and reevings Destroying our realm-lands
Rape-sons of Hengist Harrassing our new-Rome
Into the eve-mist Out of our eye-sight
Bear-bullies back creep Under the bleak moon
Loves lying death-kissed No sign of life-light
Endless their end-sleep Death is their fortune.
Herewith, a poem commissioned by Master Maelgwyn and company as a weapon in the first war of the sunshades, at Rowany Festival AS XXVII. Maelgwyn said he liked it, and rewarded me with a hand-made and hand-fired cup-thing, which I still have. One of these days I may figure out what I can do with the thing.
[April, 1993]
The very neatly sewn enchanted campsite
Has lately seen the darker price of fame
For with their reputation as a source of admiration
They've attracted imitation and it's looking pretty lame.
The mistresses and masters of enchantment
Are challenged by a sunshade made in hell
Bearing half a dozen peasants, full of scrappy adolescents,
Lacking any incandescence, and developing a smell.
And despite His Highness' very clear directions
The sunshade houses men of ill repute
Who are lounging on the desk in a manner Romanesque
Looking typic'ly grotesque, without redeeming attributes.
They've a number, we admit, of leaves and laurels,
And a dangly bit or hat at times is seen,
But there's never many hints of the class of Laurel Bints
Who parade, gavotte and mince in the tent upon the green!
And they lack the merest whispers of decorum
When their chief is but a raucous auctioneer.
And without a real valet, they perspire through the day
Full of dust and disarray, and quite unlike the comfort here.
You can see the fact whenever peers are meeting
And the pelicans and laurels run and chat.
For the whole enchanted ground is bereft of any sound
While the others mill around looking peasant-like and flat.
And the decorations hitherto presented
Look a little on the trite and tacky side
With their banners limp and wan and their cupids painted on
In their paper parthenon, they're not a challenge to deride.
So while you hear our lovely chorus singing sweetly,
Just consider this with Queen Shaheena's eyes.
Though she's sitting with that bunch, she'll be joining us for lunch
Which I'd tell you in the crunch is quite astonishingly wise!
We were at an Ursulan feast, and I noticed that the banners with pictures of the Ursulan heraldic mascot looked less like a bear than a sort of mishmash of penguin, sloth and rat. Being a herald, I knew instinctively that this was a new kind of heraldic beast (or monster, as they're properly called) and I resolved to research it. These are the results of my long, arduous investigations.
[January 2000]
Eleven thousand virgins, maids and martyrs
Live within this college, so I've heard,
And each is just as sweet and pure of heart as
Saint Ursula could wish - they give their word!
And there upon the wall you see the reason:
The mighty beast to whom they pledge their troth.
With head of rat and tail of fairy penguin,
And slothly feet, the mythic Ranglawoth!
The Ranglawoth in all ways aids the college,
Its many features act as guide and goal.
To know these folk, you must attain their knowledge
Of that creation's heart and mind and soul.
The rat, whose head the beast is plainly wearing,
Is clever, and adapts to any fix.
It lives, nor ever worrying nor caring,
In palace grand or hovel made of sticks.
The sloth, whose legs adorn the mighty creature,
Is careful, wasting not his work or time,
For laziness, no fault it is but feature!
Excessive effort, that's the greater crime!
The penguin, who has lent the beast its tail,
Appears to lack for flight, although a bird,
But in its proper realm it does not fail,
As in their own these folk are undeterred.
And so they live with clever, rat-like cunning,
And rest, as nature teaches, like the sloth,
And strive like penguins, ever in the running;
Emulating thus the Ranglawoth.
These generally started out as posts on blogs or mailing lists. As I find works of mine that I think deserve preserving, I'll add them here.
Posted to the Bardic Circle mailing list, in answer to a question. One day I'll do this up as a Cockatrice article, maybe.
[Early 2002]
Off the top of my head, here's my advice on running a successful bardic circle.
First, my credentials. I was the first (and so far only) Bard of Politarchopolis for a couple of years, from the creation of the Barony until I resigned. I've run and/or participated in bardic circles at nearly every Rowany Festival, Spring War and Valhalla I've attended, with results ranging from half-hour singalongs to ten-hour uninterrupted miracles. I've been a minstrel (my preferred synonym for "bard") since I joined ten years ago. I've produced a couple of songbooks, called The Known Words 1 and 2, which I'm working on a reprinted version of for Coronation. I have the Principality A&S award for performance, and I tend to win bardic competitions often enough that I've stopped entering cos it's a bit embarrassing (gods, that sounds conceited!). And I'm not and never want to be a Laurel, which demonstrates that I'm not a loony.
So I feel I Know What I'm Talking About.
The key to making a bardic circle work is to reach what I call "ignition", the point when the circle just keeps on going and producing good entertainment without any further guidance. At Rowany, this can take anything from ten minutes to two hours, depending on the mood, the people and the phase of the moon. You know you've reached ignition when there's a bunch of performers all wanting to be next, and it's not just the usual inveterate showoffs (like me!). Once you've got it going, it pretty much stays going for as long as anyone can fight off tiredness; I've started circles at Rowany, wandered off, and come back eight hours later to find them still going, with hardly any of the same people there and many of the voices reduced to enthusiastic croaks!
This is my recipe for a bardic circle like that. Your mileage may vary; it can especially depend on how many performers you can find who really want the circle to work, and how many spectators you can get. Take this as a starting point.
Camping events are best for this, of course. You need somewhere that's not too close to the tavern, the drummers, the dancers, or the other sources of noise. In particular, it's quite impossible to mix bardic circles and ball-style dancers; the dance music drowns out the singers, the singing throws off the rhythm of the dance. AVOID!
You also need to avoid campsites, especially ones with small children. Some of the performers can be quite loud, even without the bellydancers and their ullulating Xena-style cries, and at night even quiet talking can disturb some people.
A camp fire is good for a medium length (2-4 hour) bardic circle, but after that the smoke can do nasty things to throats and voices. The best idea is a pavillion with a solid clean floor, or tables and lots of chairs, with lanterns and candles for light. You need somewhere to put songbooks and some way to read them. Given sufficient chairs and lighting, and enough room for passersby, there's no practical limit to how long this sort of circle can continue.
It's best if the venue is on a public thoroughfare, but not too close to taverns and other meccas of drunken debauchery. The best-ever circles I ever ran or attended were in the Greasyespoone pavillion at Festival years ago -- several trestle tables, many many chairs, shelter from the wind on two sides, a couple of lanterns provided, and it was maybe two dozen paces along a road that nearly everyone used to get to and from the tavern. This made it easily visible to everyone who might happen by, without being so close that there was any serious spillover from the tavern itself.
I find a bardic circle works best if a performer is actively running it. A non-performer has one handicap: he or she is less willing to encourage new performers and discourage overly enthusiastic ones. The overly enthusiastic performers aren't often a problem, but sometimes you'll find a tone-deaf singer with a thousand obviously-19th-century folk songs to sing, or an inebriated storyteller with a lisp and a monotone who wants to explain the entire Ring Of The Nibelung in precise detail. If you're a performer yourself, you'll work out a way to encourage someone else to jump in instead, and hopefully the pain will be minimised. Meanwhile, some of the best performances I've heard have been surprises from people who never sang in the SCA before that night; it's a good idea to encourage this!
There's no need for people to really be in a circle, I should explain. If you use the structure I describe below, it helps to have some idea of who's next in order, but if all else fails you can just pass a candle lantern around, like the Conch in Lord Of The Flies (tho less nasty). As long as there's someone to keep watch and make sure no one is missed, this works fine.
The structure I usually use is one I borrowed (ie stole) from gods-know-where, ages ago; it's called "Pick, Pass or Play". Starting on your left, and going around in order, each person there has a choice. They can Play, which means perform: sing, dance, tell a story, play a tune. They can Pass, which means pike out: admit to having no voice, or to shyness, and beg forgiveness. Or they can Pick: choose a song or a singer they'd like to hear, ask for a story on such-and-such a topic, or suggest a style of performance they'd like. Wherever possible, you should try to encourage people to Play, or failing that to Pick. The only reason someone should Pass is if they know absolutely nothing about what's going on, or they're crushingly shy, in which case you should minimise embarrassment and leave them be.
It's important to keep watch on the spectators, to make sure they're not hovering too far outside the light for fear of intruding. It's a bardic circle! They're welcome! Drum this into them if you have to. And make sure as you go round the circle that you don't miss anyone if you can help it, and that you explain the Pick, Pass or Play concept a couple of times so they know their options.
After that, sit back and enjoy. If you're running the thing, it's usually a good idea not to take advantage of the spotlight too much. Don't tell long stories or sing long songs, and don't be the first to jump in when someone chooses to Pick a certain style or song that you know well. Your primary role is to keep the circle going, not to build up your own ego.
Whether or not you're the one running it, you should also keep watch on the mood; if it's your turn to perform and the last few songs were mournful ballads, sing something bright and silly. If the last few were mostly period, sing filk. If the last few were solo performances, start up a song with a chorus everyone can join in on. Variety is important; every time a bardic circle drifts into a particular "theme" -- silly, period, filking, serious -- it bores those spectators and intimidates those performers who prefer the opposite.
For a medium-sized bardic circle of about thirty people at Rowany Festival, it usually seems to take two goes round the circle for ignition to occur. Once it does, it no longer matters whose turn it is -- performances start happening spontaneously. Of course, you need to keep a tight rein on some egos here, to ensure no one is overlooked and no one wears themselves out in a quest for glory! But usually, this isn't an issue; there are enough performers around that once the mood takes them, they all get into it. This is the point that you can leave your circle in the capable hands of all assembled and pop off to the privies to deal with the bladder that's been bothering you since the third rendition of "Hammer Of Thor" an hour and a half ago...
I think that's about it. If I think of more, I'll do this up as a Cockatrice article. For now, feel free to Share And Enjoy, and I hope to see you at a circle some time!
I was asked by Kurgan and Ewa to join their household as their Court Fool. This I gladly did, and to introduce myself in court they had me compose a suitable boast, telling of my life and talents. Regrettably, well before my tour of duty ended I moved to Rowany and dropped out of the SCA for a while, so I didn't live up to my potential. But the intro was good.
[January 1999]
My parents died many years before I was born, and I was raised by a kindly family of pebbles in an undiscovered ocean near Lombardy. I had a minor role in Babylonian mythology. I have seven fingers on my left foot. I can one-shot Jade of Starfall, fighting with only a sultana bun and a small badger. I once told a newcomer about the award system and she understood.
I composed the Song of Roland, but threw it away when I realised it had too many vowels. Several of my toenail clippings are on display in Rome, where the faithful flock to see them to cure their existential angst. I flirt with trees. Orlando di Lasso wrote several love songs to me, but I still wouldn't stop yodelling. I eat mice.
I understand double-entry bookkeeping, Latin irregular verbs and the spleen. I can explain why Lochac is not a Kingdom, but I choose not to. I am clean, asymmetrical and claustrophobic. I can cook an entire feast in the Provencale manner using only an elderly trout and sixteen crates of gravel. I am not afraid of Laurels.
I had a dog once. No one knows my middle name. I am an expert in fencing, a journeyman in embroidery and a village in Crete. I can sing harmonies with myself, but I do not do B flat. Women are irresistibly attracted to me, despite my crumhorn playing and the fact that I have nipples in unusual places.
I invented the long bow, the lizard and gargling. I never forget the words. I rarely if ever fart near ladies, farm animals or the dead. And I've got a duck. But I have never been a member of a Royal Household.
This isn't actually a poem -- it isn't even art! -- but it's very popular nonetheless. If you know about cloved lemons and their application in the SCA, be educated herewith in the nature of other cloved fruit, as defined by the late Clan Womble (now known as Clan Roadkill).
[July 1993]
(with apologies to Terry Pratchett for the spelling)
Clovéd Lemonne: A Kisse
Clovéd Oranje: An Hugge
Clovéd Eggeplant: A Massage unto ye Shouldeures
Clovéd Banana: Warm Wordes
Clovéd Bruxxelle's Sproote: A Massage unto Ye Feete
Clovéd Corne: Ye Nybblyng of Ye Eares
Clovéd Carrotte: To Talke Dyrty Yet Forsoothly
Clovéd Potatoe: An Light, Match, or Splinte
Clovéd Grape: An Warme Handshake
Cloved Watermellonn: 'Tis best not discuss'd
Sometimes I write songs and poetry about other topics: politics, SF fandom, life in general. Not often, but enough to have a category in my BatPage for it. Here's that, then.
The closing ceremony of the Sydney Olympics featured the now-defunct band most of us call 'Average Garden'. This is to the tune of their nauseatingly up-beat Affirmation.
[September 2000]
I believe that crap is all that gets played on the radio
I believe I'd almost rather shoot myself than be Bardot
I believe that stars get contracts only if they give good head
I believe their parents should have stayed apart and never bred
I believe the music industry's run by Neanderthals
I believe that someone ought to shove them off Niagara Falls
I believe in cliches - all our screaming girly fans won't mind;
I believe you can't appreciate Sony 'til you've been signed;
I believe in shoehorning lyrics in place haphazardly;
I believe the Wiggles' Wake Up Jeff is deep philosophy.
I believe you can't affect the mighty music industry
I believe that cash is more important than integrity
I believe we might as well give in and let them take control
I believe we'd really like our next CD to turn to gold
I believe in selling all our souls to get played on the air
I believe it's faster than Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?
I believe that Andy Warhol got it right, I don't know how:
I believe we'll soon be only mentioned on Where Are They Now
I believe we might as well enjoy it while we've got the chance
I believe I might be able to get into Kylie's pants!
A Jabberwocky filk, for no good reason.
[August 2006]
Twas Prolog, and the Sather troffs
Did Perl and Python in the awk;
All MIXAL were the MS-DOS,
And the COMALs Smalltalk.
'Beware the Javascript, my son!
The JOSS that bytes, the Oz that Rexx!
Beware the Jython bird, and shun
The Visual DataFlex!'
He took his VB6 in hand:
Long time the Microcode he sought--
So rested he by the Turing tree,
And TEX awhile in thought.
And as in UML he stood,
The Javascript, with eyes of flame,
Came Whitespace through the Turbo C,
And COBOLed as it came!
T, NIL! T, NIL! And CHILL and Fril
The VBA went Snobol, Scheme!
He left it dead, and with its Sed
He went Befungeing home.
'And hast thou slain the Javascript?
Come to my ARM, my Basic boy!
O Franz LISP day! C, F! G, J!'
He Chapelled in his joy.
Twas Prolog, and the Sather troffs
Did Perl and Python in the awk;
All MIXAL were the MS-DOS,
And the COMALs Smalltalk.
An ode to the animals in our house, to the tune of All People That On Earth Do Dwell, one of the older and more turgid hymns.
[September 2008]
All creatures that on Earth do dwell,
Afflicting us with shit and smell,
Are brought to us, we know full well,
By he who is the Lord of Hell.
You cat, who claws our sofa seat,
And howls at night demanding meat,
And seeks by day to trip our feet:
I'd gladly set you in concrete.
You dog, you drooling imbecile
Who barks at every passing wheel,
My children greet you with such zeal;
I frankly don't see your appeal.
You rat, in self-inflicted stink,
With tail of quite alarming pink,
Our table scraps your food and drink --
You're old, you'll be dead soon, I think.
You chicken, in your makeshift run,
Aren't bad when all is said and done:
You give us fresh eggs by the ton;
Of all beasts, you're my favourite one.
A commentary on the Communications Decency Act, and the knee-jerk reactions of a lot of ignorant politicians. Fortunately, it appears that political incompetence stops them doing evil as well as good. This is to the tune of Heaven On Their Minds from Jesus Christ Superstar.
[Early 1996]
Our net is purer now
At last, thank the Lord, we can surf in a sea free of smut.
If you wish away the sex and the porn,
You'll have clean wholesome fun, nothing but.
Congress!
You started to believe
The rot the papers say,
You really did believe
You had to save the day.
And all the rights we had
Will gurgle down the drains,
When votes begin to matter more
Than your mortal brains.
Listen, Bill, you'll soon be searching for work;
In the mean time, must you be such a jerk?
We'll remember - you were a politician to the end.
You must appease the Righteous horde:
Who needs a brain? They've got the Lord!
But they'll squash you when they round the bend.
I was netting when this whole thing began.
No talk of censors - defense was the plan.
And believe me, the applications there are still around.
But every byte you send today
Gets routed through some other way
And they'll hush you if you make a sound.
Arpanet, your bastard son should have left enough alone,
BBS for Uni jerks, simple stuff works.
Comp.lang.lisp and FTP, all it really has to be,
That would cause no nasty shocks - no legal blocks.
Listen, users, do you care for the net?
Don't you see it, we are not beaten yet!
We are destiny, have you forgotten what a force we are?
They are frightened by the crowd
A million voices, roaring loud,
They'll be dead before they get too far.
Listen, Billy, to the warning I send:
Please remember that it's your world will end.
And it's plain to hear our voices strengthening with every hour.
All the internet's alive
Now it's happened, it will thrive:
You can battle it or join the power.
You can join the power!
Yet another to the tune of Advance Australia Fair, inspired by... well, everything, really. Why do people vote for John Howard? Is it stupidity or malice? I can't figure that one out...
[2000]
We live here on a continent
Upon this wide world's arse,
And nothing ever happens here:
That's not some kind of farce.
We read the Murdoch Daily News,
The Royals we adore;
We glad to help George Dubya out
Whenever there's a war.
We all have working craniums,
But no-one knows what for.
Not terribly long after the Sydney water debacle (see Giardia) a gas plant in Victoria exploded and deprived Melbourne of a gas supply for several weeks. The country looked like it was falling to pieces, but we still had some advantages compared to our geographical neighbours.
[1998?]
Sydney's got no water; Melbourne's got no gas;
Brisbane's full of rednecks voting Pauline in en masse;
Adelaide's got water -- you can cut it with a knife;
Canberra's got no airport and a boring social life;
Darwin drives you paranoid; Perth's too far away;
If you like grotesque in-breeding, maybe Hobart is OK;
In short, the country's had it, but there's still one thing we've got:
We can say we don't like Johnny and we won't get gassed and shot!
The mad Antinori decided to get himself some publicity by offering to clone a human being, on the principle that public ignorance could be financial bliss. This is about that. Naturally enough it's to the tune of Send In The Clowns.
[2002]
Isn't it mad! Aren't we insane!
Trying to outdo the gods at their own game!
Build me a clone!
Is there a law? Who must approve?
Or is it ethical chess -- move, countermove?
Where is my clone?
Build me a clone!
Just when that sheep started to drift
Out of the papers and cloning again got short shrift,
Here's Antinori again, with a medical coup,
Claiming he's right, but can it be true?
Don't you love kids?
Cuddly and dear!
I'm sure that they'll be who I've been,
Or reas'nably near
Quick, build me a clone...
But don't make him queer!
Isn't it mad! Aren't we obsessed!
Certain that everyone will be so impressed!
Where is my clone? I don't see my clone!
Well... maybe that's best.
... Maybe that's best.
One of the best things the Fabulous Monster introduced me to in Sydney was a band called The Deadly Nightshades. They're a pub band in and around Sydney, but they've put out three CDs now and their shows are the most fun you can have in a pub without goats. This is a song about their new guitar-stringing roadie dude. It's to the tune of their song Did A Lot Of Living Last Night. I wrote it during one of their concerts -- when the muse strikes you gotta go with it!
[March 2000]
Did a lot of stringing last night, yeah
Strung a lot of gee-tars all right, mmmm,
Now I got a lot of healing to do, yeah,
Cos I broke a lot of fingers in two, ooh.
And I wanna be learning everything, yeah
I wanna be learning:
How to tune, how to string
Where to put everything
To do it all in nothing flat
Be as quick as our boy Matt
Why the stand fell on the floor
Manipulation's such a bore
Why the strings are made of steel
Fingers I no longer feel
Did a lot of stringing last night, yeah
Strung a lot of gee-tars all right,
Now I got a lot of healing to do, yeah,
Cos I broke a lot of fingers in two, ooh.
And I wanna be learning all the tricks, yeah
I wanna be learning:
Every move and every swerve
Every time I lose my nerve
Make a mess? Say "Ha ha".
So what if Bill plays air guitar?
Brendan chucks his spare to me,
Every string is flying free,
Gotta twist, gotta strain,
Chopped a finger off again!
Dismembered...
Dismembered...
...
My obligatory Star Trek filk, and also my obligatory Queen filk. How efficient! I've had this one quoted on more web sites than anything else I've written. To the tune of Bohemian Rhapsody, of course.
[1991?]
A Star Trek filk of a different kind: this is The Troggs' Wild Thing in Klingon.
[1991?]
Doch naS
bom tIqwIj DamoH
Hoch tlhaQ soHDaq
Doch naS
Doch naS, qabang vIHar
'ach DIch vIneH
ghoS, Qey HItlhap
(Qeynet ghobe')
qabang
A comment on the earworminess of Chris de Burgh's Don't Pay The Ferryman led to this: an ode to the feral squeegee men at Canberra's traffic lights.
[September 2006]
You're an urban girl on an urban road
Traffic's good, the weather is fine,
A red light brings a pause to your journey.
He is standing by, like a poison toad,
Must be something bent in his mind
Yes there's his squeegee brush,
And there's his packet of Winnies.
You see his crusty frown
Don't wind your window down
There are voices in your head: "don't do it!"
Voices filled with dread: "don't do it!"
Too many women learned the score:
Whatever you do,
Don't pay the feral man
Don't let him touch that glass
Don't pay the feral man
He's an evil-smelling pain in the arse.
With a squeegee brush that he never bought,
A water bucket turning black,
Beware that rock he's saving for your duco.
And then he meets your eye and he lurches forth,
You shake your head and turn away
He waves his brush and leers
At your chest through the window
And then the feral man said,
"I just wanna buy bread."
But you can smell him though - don't do it.
You must tell him no - don't do it.
And still this voice comes from inside,
"Whatever you do
Don't pay the feral man
Don't let him touch that glass
Don't pay the feral man
He's an evil-smelling pain in the arse.
Don't pay the feral man!"
Years and years ago, I used to listen to Rage on the ABC (I hear rumours that it's still going, but I'm always in bed by then so I wouldn't know). One song, Forever Young by Alphaville, always stuck in my head, and it's only recently that I've noticed that a public video-sharing website has a large wodge of eighties songs, meaning I could finally track it down and listen to it again. Yay!
So of course I had to filk it.
[May 2006]
Let's make a song, let's make it quite strong
Translate from German as we're going along
Hoping for success in American charts
Are we gonna go on tour or not?
Let us wear pants made out of shiny leather
We're pouting to make them think we're sleeping together
Putting on our makeup, world needs a shakeup
The music's not for old men
Can you imagine if we hit the top?
Have to hide our faces down at the shop
Freddy and Elton, invite us around
Our records turning to gold then.
Enormous hair, I want to have enormous hair
Do you really want to be conformist, enormous, ooh warm us
Enormous hair, I want to have enormous hair
Do you really want to be conformist, enormous hair
Drummers are boring, drum machines are neat
Keyboards for melody, explosions for beat
This is the eighties, the video's king
The hair is the thing.
It's so hard to write words that I can wail
I don't want to sound as if I'm in a gale
Sing falsetto, catch a breath
Crescendos are enormous
So many big concerts, we'll be singing them all
So many fans, hold them all in thrall
So many groupies, so usher them through
We'll let them come too
A commentary on the PR disaster a couple of years ago (see also Australian Experience) when Sydney Water increased the sensitivity of their quality testing too much and discovered a bunch of germs that had been in their for years. For a while the place was like Tom Lehrer's Pollution Song. This is to the tune of Azaria by MUFS, which is to the tune of The Lion Sleeps Tonight (more or less).
[1997?]
(Giardia, giardia, giardia, giardia, etc)
(Cry-y-y-y-pto-sporidium, etc)
In the water, the Sydney water, the creatures swarm tonight
In the water, the Sydney water, the creatures swarm tonight
In the storm drain, just up from Prospect, a dog lies in the dark
Poor old Fido, at last we all know, your blight's worse than your bark
There must have been a toxic spill
The Sydney water's turned to swill
Unless you boil it it can kill
Just like it did to David Hill
Public slaughter at Sydney Water, the boss has been abused;
What a caper, they're in the paper, and Carr is not amused.
Now you're shrinking from thoughts of drinking, all those germs within!
Your ablutions require solutions, so clean your teeth in gin!
Sydney life style, the edge-of-knife style, could clearly be your doom
Don't you worry, cos if you hurry, Melbourne still has room!
I started this absolutely years ago, and finished it quite recently. It is, of course, to the tune of Heartbreak Hotel by E. A. Presley, and is possibly the second most tasteless song I've ever written. Yay me!
[1986-2002]
Now since my gerbil left me, I've found a new place to dwell
There's lots of furry rodents there at Hamster Hotel
They're looking so sexy, they're looking so sexy,
Dressed in their duct-tape lingerie.
It's technic'ly still legal (except in Arkansas)
So grab a length of rubber tube and kneel down on the floor
They're looking so sexy, they're looking so sexy,
Dressed in their duct-tape lingerie.
So if your gerbil leaves you, don't stutter and don't weep
'Cause if these friends don't satisfy, you know there's always sheep!
They're looking so sexy, they're looking so sexy,
Dressed in their duct-tape lingerie.
It amuses me that it's only ever women who sing She Moved Through The Fair, even though the "young love" in the song is female. Either they're singing in quotation marks, or it's the new lesbian anthem; beats me which.
Anyhow, I thought the time was right for a rewritten version that fixes this minor glitch. Regrettably, we quickly see the reason this hasn't been done before: it turns into The Blacksmith before it's half over. Ah well.
[July 2008]
My young man said to me, "Your mother won't know,
"And your father's a pisspot. We might as well go.
"I fancy a quickie, and I know you do too,
"Loaf of bread, jug of wine, picnic blanket, and you."
He moved right beside me, and we skirted the Fair
Off to somewhere secluded, where no-one would stare
And he left when 'twas over, all rather too soon
As a snake or a lizard moves under the moon.
The people were saying, "Do you see how she swells?
"That lassie, I'd wager, will be hearing some bells."
So I checked with the doctor, the answer was clear...
And that was the last that I saw of my dear.
I dreamed it last night, my young man came in.
His hair held some grey now, and a beard on his chin.
He laid his eyes on me, and this he did say:
"Can you lend me a fiver, then I'll be on my way."
Meg Davis wrote this: Captain Jack and the Mermaid. I filked it. What more do you need to know?
Captain Jack was a con man when he went to war,
Oh, you mad Daleks, go and kill him, just try!
He'd escaped the Time Agents, was looking to score,
Oh, zap him, you Daleks, zap him dead if you can,
He'll be back in a blink -- he's a hell of a man.
Well, I thought Captain Jack was a bit of all right...
He was sexy and "Spock", pretty good in a fight...
But his ship got blown up, so he joined with our crew...
Helped us stop the Slitheens, had a dinner or two...
Then we all got gassed and our ship was waylayed...
We all watched the Earth fall and the Daleks invade...
But my Jack was not there when I saved the day...
He'd met with a Dalek who blew him away...
While I and my Doctor went back to my home,
Dear old Jack was all stranded, entirely alone.
He had pants made by robots and a band on his wrist
So he stared at the dials and gave them a twist!
He fell through the vortex for many a year,
One day he landed, not too far from here.
He was in the right place, approximately
But his timing was out by a lifetime or three...
Well, Jack was in deep, so he figured he'd wait
He joined up with Torchwood, resigned to his fate.
He then figured out what the vortex had done:
If he died, he got better -- what terrible fun!
He walked the years bold, he walked the years long,
While his lovers' young faces turned wrinkled and wan.
When out of the years, Jack rose like that bird,
And this is the message that always recurred:
"You can go through your life living safe on the land,
But flying and fighting is so much more grand!
Grab your great-coat and blaster, come battle with me,
We can win back the future and set the world free!"
And that is the story I heard from dear Jack,
When after the ages, he finally came back.
Though now I'm off here on an alternate shore,
Still this is his song and I'll sing it once more!
Captain Jack was a dead man, but now he lives on
Oh, you mad Daleks, go and kill him, just try!
He'll be smirking that smirk when the stars are all gone
Oh, zap him, you Daleks, zap him dead if you can,
He'll be back in a blink -- he's a hell of a man.
Zap him and snap him, put his corpse in a can
He'll be back in a blink -- he's a hell of a man.
Written for Adam "Malachi von Riga" Dalton, Liberal voter, devout Catholic of one of those obscure orthodox persuasions, and wearer of green dressing gowns at his own birthday party. This is all true! The tune is If I Were A Rich Man from Fiddler On The Roof.
[2001]
If I were Malarky
I could be a Catholic Fascist
And a Liberal wanker too
All day long I'd argue GST
If I were a Mal-ar-kee!
If I were Malarky
I could pose upon a cover
Wearing nothing but a smile
All the girls would die of lust for me
If I were the man named Malarkee
I'd wear a gown of green and bear a banana
Carried in my arm as I gavotte
And the cheapest PJs the op-shops sell
And when some bastard asked my friends for some gossip
None of them would say an awful lot
Cos I've got the goods on them as well
Li-li-li-li-lies...
If I were Malarky
Diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-diddle-dum
All day long I'd diddle-diddle-dum
Think I'll drop my daks and bare my bum.
In the height of Hanson mania, it occurred to me to spoof the entire mess with the tune to Monty Python's I Like Chinese.
[August 1998]
spoken
The Asian world seems absolutely crackers,
With nuclear bombs to blow us all sky high.
There's Pakistanis sitting on the trigger.
It's depressing and it's senseless, and that's why...
singing
I like Pauline.
I like Pauline.
Although her aides are all obscene,
She is young and sexy and and at least she's not Green!
I like Pauline.
I like Pauline.
There's a lot of farmers who are mad as hell.
You'd better listen to them or you'll suffer as well.
I like Pauline.
I like Pauline.
If you're not an abo or a slope,
Then she's sweet and she's friendly and she'll fill you with hope.
I like David O.
He watches where the dollars go.
Think of the many sacrifices he's made:
There's... falters ummm... errrr...
spoken Oh never mind.
singing again
I like Pauline.
I like Pauline.
I like the whole One Nation score:
Their rallies, their banners, their Young Hansen corps.
I like Hansonites,
The clan those lefty pinkos fight
If Darwin is anything to shout about,
Then not all the apes have got evolving worked out.
So, I like Pauline.
I like Pauline.
Her hair has such an orange sheen,
And she's plain, and she's simple, and still likes the Queen.
(All together!)
verse in Hansonese
Wot huh pleez eck s'plein
Wot huh pleez eck s'plein
Wot huh pleez eck s'plein
Goh bak hoem, goh bak hoem, iu slanti ai goox!
Deutschland uber alles.
Deutschland uber alles
Ein volk, ein vaterland, ein reich
It's beau-ti-ful one day, nineteen fifty the next!
I like Pauline.
I like Pauline.
music stops; spoken Oh, wait a second... No I don't.
Yes, I know Kurt Vonnegut had nothing to do with the Sunscreen "Song", but it's got his name on it now, just like Amerigo Vespucci, so I figured it would do.
[31 August 2006]
Geeks and hackers of the class of 2007:
Use version control.
If I could offer you only one tip for the future, version control would be it. The long-term benefits of version control have been proved by Real Programmers, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own psychosis. I will dispense this advice now.
Enjoy the sparseness and simplicity of your libraries. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the sparseness and simplicity of your libraries until you've upgraded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at those pretty coloured posters of your class hierarchies and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much time you've wasted and how useless Moore's Law really was. You are not as l33t as you imagine.
Don't worry about Linux market share. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to install Debian from the cover CD on a computer magazine. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed the packagers' minds, the kind that are blindingly obvious to you and everyone else in the world who doesn't work for Red Hat.
Run one process every day that uses 100% CPU.
Profile.
Don't be careless with other people's email addresses. Don't put up with websites that are careless with yours.
Use regexps.
Don't waste your time commenting on Slashdot. Sometimes you're +5 Funny, sometimes you're -1 Troll. The article page is long and, in the end, it's only a bunch of 14-year-olds using Dad's Windows 98 box.
Leave clear, concise, useful comments in your code. Don't leave pointless ones. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.
Keep your old copies of Knuth. Throw away your old shell scripts.
Learn LISP.
Don't feel guilty if you don't like Python's whitespace and can't get your head around Haskell. The most interesting programs I know weren't written in trendy languages. Some of the most useful ones were even written in VB.
Get some sunshine occasionally. Don't bother about your suntan. You won't miss it when it's gone.
Maybe you'll get a degree, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll start a startup, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll sell the company to Yahoo before you're 40, maybe you'll go cap in hand back to your old boss and beg for a phone support job in the last remaining helpdesk megaplex outside the subcontinent. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Paul Graham did it all much younger than you, and he's still occasionally a bit of a prat.
Enjoy your emacs. Use it every way you can. Always be slightly afraid of it, but not of what other people think of it. It's the greatest operating system you'll ever use, and it has some text editing features.
Hack, even if you have nowhere to do it but your basement.
Read the FAQs, even if you then email the site maintainers anyway.
Do not look at Apple screenshots. They will only make you feel ugly.
Get to know Perl. You never know when it'll be gone for good.
Be nice to COBOL programmers. They're your best link to the past and the people most likely to sympathise when the next bubble bursts and you're unemployed again.
Understand that programming fads come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Regexps will always be worth learning, regardless of what JWZ may have to say on the matter. Closures, too. And how malloc works, even if every language you ever touch is garbage collected. Monads, however, are just silly.
Work in Visual Basic once, but leave before it makes you soft. Work in Java once, but leave before it makes your frontal lobe liquify and dribble out of your bleeding eyesockets.
Test.
Accept certain inalienable truths: Processor speeds will rise. Software will contain bugs. You, too, will spend too much of your day reading Slashdot. And when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, processors were zippy, software was comprehensible, and hackers respected Richard Stallman.
Respect Richard Stallman.
Don't expect anyone else to give realtime support. Maybe you paid a licensing fee. Maybe you know the lead developer. But you never know when someone on the newsgroup might trick you into deleting your home directory because they forgot their medication this morning.
Don't mess too much with your config or by the time you need to upgrade it will be unsupportable.
Be careful whose libraries you download, but be patient with those who support them. Software libraries are a form of faith. Open Sourcing them is a way of fishing one's hard work from the archives, polishing it up, commenting most of the ugly parts and selling it for more than it's worth, even (or especially) if it's free.
But trust me on the version control.
A philosophical contemplation upon Natural Luck, and the difficulty (frequently seen among evangelical Christians and other sufferers of mental illness) of being entirely sure you know what your Deity has in mind.
[pre-1992]
The creed of serendipity's a walk along a blade,
Divining intervention by degrees.
To analyse the motives of a maker, unafraid,
Is rarely all acheivable with ease.
The subtlety of purpose of the Deity is famed,
He owes a debt of comment'ry to none;
But when in vivid memory the enterprise is framed,
The wisdom stands as naked as the sun.
I felt a sudden urge to immortalise an old acquaintance in song. This is to the tune of the theme from Dangermouse. I will not be revealing the real identity of this Adonis of a man, though I expect most people who know him will recognise him from the description.
[May 2006]
He's the coolest!
He's the suavest!
Wherever there are freshers he'll be there!
He's the god!
What a bod!
He's so healthy, you can see it in his hair!
Mister G!
He's exotic!
He's erotic!
He's a muscle-man with picture-perfect pecs!
Mister G!
(Rescue me!)
He's the reason why the gods created sex!
Mister G! Mister G! Mister G!!!
Malachi von Riga sings a ripping version of Eric Bogle's My Youngest Son Came Home Today. Last time I saw him, I swore I'd write this modified version, and today I did. Note that if you're familiar with Eric Bogle's version you can sing this as written, and if you prefer Billy Bragg's rendition then you can swap the first two lines of the third verse as he does.
(Incidentally, I'd like to apologise to any of my gay friends who may find this deeply cliched and tedious. That was the point, after all. Just be glad I didn't mention Greigy's favourite line about being "as camp as a row of boy scouts".)
[29 April 2005]
My youngest son told me he's gay
His friends marched all on Saturday
The speakers play old ABBA greats
As, on the float, my son gyrates
In skintight shorts of gold lamé
My youngest son told me he's gay
My youngest son is a friendly man
He will always help out when he can
At the sailor's mission every week
And then, to keep his fine physique
He loves the old YMCA
With all those muscles on display.
To hear the secret her son keeps
His Irish mother wails and weeps
Grand-children's mirth, untimely stilled
Her dreams of booties -- unfulfilled
But as for me, I'm quite OK
I can't stand nappies anyway.
My youngest son told me he's gay
His friends marched all on Saturday
The speakers play old ABBA greats
As, on the float, my son gyrates
In skintight shorts of gold lamé
My youngest son told me he's gay
So who'll tell his fiancee?
I refer elsewhere to the second most tasteless song I've ever written. This is the one that pipped it at the post. It's to the tune of New York, New York by Frank Sinatra.
[12 September 2001]
Start watching the news, I'm flying today
I'm gonna aim a plane at it - New York, New York!
Those Yankees and Jews, I'll blow 'em away
Right through the very heart of it - New York, New York!
I want to blow up in a city that isn't cheap,
And find I'm killing the lot -- all of them sheep!
Emergency crews are busy today
I'm gonna make a brand new parking lot - of old New York
If I can crash it there, you'll read it everywhere
It's up to me - New York, New York
New York, New York...
I want to go down in a city that never dims
To find I'm paradise-bound, giving my life,
Allah's my pal, there's gals attending my whims!
American views are changing today
I'm gonna re-make foreign policy with old New York
If it takes long before they start a Third World War
I'll be surprised - New York, New York!
I wrote this for the Triple M "Suburban Songs" competition, but I was actually too late for it. Hey ho. People who've lived in Newtown seem to think it's quite good, at least. It's to the tune of Khe Sanh, by Cold Chisel, possibly the least Newtownish song I could think of.
[May 2002]
I pierced my lip with a ring of steel - Newtown
And my clothes were old in the seventies, but they're dead sexy now
You want some Vietnam home cooking?
Well I guess you should have made a booking --
But there's lots of good Thai restaurants around.
There were long-forgotten council guarantees
So there's no new houses built here since 1873.
And so it looks like we live in squalor
But it cost us a million dollars
And a car park's rare as hen's teeth on the ground.
And it's like so many more suburban sprawls
The roads are never empty, and the parks are grey and small
And the pubs are always open
But the library's long been closed
And the bikes are parked with chunky iron chains.
And insurance costs are feral, have to lie, say "Pennant Hills"
And until you've lived in Newtown, you just won't believe your bills
But the night life's always jumpin'
And the goths are kind of fun
And the Uni's close, to let you stretch your brains.
So you walk the length of King Street, end to end
And you see a million strangers, maybe half a dozen friends
Don't mind the noise of the sirens
'Cause at least they're quickly gone
Oh, but the car alarms can hurt at three AM.
And I've travelled round this town from year to year
And Windsor's far too quiet, Menai's trees fill me with fear
I went down to visit Canberra
But I couldn't breathe the air
So I'll stick right here, and will not leave again.
You know the fast train out of Newtown should be here
Only seven minutes late now, so it's still not time to fear
There ain't nothing on the rails
But they can run as slow as snails,
God I hope I get to work some time this year.
You know the fast train out of Newtown must have gone.
You know the fast train out of Newtown must have gone.
And it's really got me shirty
'Cause a bus'll take until nine thirty
And now the fast train out of Newtown must have gone.
You know the fast train out of Newtown must have gone.
You know the fast train out of Newtown must have gone.
And it's really got me shirty
'Cause a bus'll take until nine thirty
And now the fast train out of Newtown must have gone.
In the nineteen sixties and seventies, the BBC had their quarry, which stood for every alien world in Doctor Who, Blake's Seven, the Hitch Hiker's Guide and all the rest of that era's SFTV.
In the nineties and noughties, the USA has its own BBC Quarry. This is a short but stirring song about that.
[April 2009]
O Caprica!
Our planetary home!
True alien world of glass and shining chrome!
So much unlike any Earthly place,
A strange world, through and through...
Though a little like Metropolis...
New York ... Seattle too...
God, now I think, it's all the same...
O Caprica, Vancouver is your name!
O Caprica, Vancouver is your name!
A celebration of celibacy. It's a bit hard to remember back to the days of my unattachedness, but they must have existed or I never would have learnt so many programming languages. Having been raised Catholic, I never thought much about the Bible until I got a startlingly enthusiastic born-again Christian girlfriend, after which my thoughts on the subject crystallised and I realised the entire Book was too dangerous to be left in the hands of protestants.
I refer you to that book for the origins of this piece:
Now concerning the things whereof ye wrote unto me: It is good for a man not to touch a woman. [...] I say therefore to the unmarried and widows, it is good for them if they abide even as I. But if they cannot contain, let them marry: for it is better to marry than to burn.
[Before 1992]
When you're trying to call on the writing of Paul, to enkindle a feeling of piety,
And discover the text gets you horribly vexed: here's an end to your useless anxiety.
Many letters he wrote are obscure and remote; never fear for your lost comprehension,
For the greatest of all of the works of Saint Paul I'll reveal, if you pay some attention.
In Corinthians 1 is his day in the sun, where he spoke with a genius unbounded;
In the paragraph seven, he most approached heaven: it's here that all wisdom is founded.
"A man", he remarks, "shouldn't rhumba with sharks; he should give all the misses a miss;
"It is better to stay in a singular way than to dare the eternal abyss!
"For the women of earth (though you greet it with mirth) are a step and a hop from damnation,
"And a sensible lad, if he's not to be had, should avoid any carnal relation!
"You can manage", wrote he, "if you emulate me, for avoiding the topic's my fame;
"All the admin and prayer take a second'ry chair, but virginity's my middle name!"
So it is, the Tarsisian uncovered his mission, to spread the good news to the laity,
And explained, in a verse, you can clearly do worse than to duck certain sources of gaity!
What a shame, I declare, that the formula there isn't met with more popular spirit;
For except for myself, sitting high on the shelf, not a fellow on earth wants to hear it!
After we'd recovered from the 2000 Sydney Olympics, we all looked around and, greatly to our surprise, discovered that the whole thing hadn't, in fact, been a complete disaster. Good grief!
This is yet another song to the tune of Advance Australia Fair.
[October 2000]
Australians, count your blessings now;
We got away with it!
'Cause SOCOG could have easily
Turned everything to shit.
We gave the world a brilliant show
In every major sense,
With fifty thousand volunteers
And no derailments!
We even won some medals at
The bloody Yanks' expense!
We'll farewell all the volunteers
In Okanui blue.
They did so well, they all deserve
Olympic medals too!
'Though Melbourne had the "Friendly Games",
We've proved that we're unique --
And now I hear that Knight's retired:
It's been a perfect week!
And in four years we'll still look good:
The next Games will be Greek!
I use PHP. That doesn't mean I like it. In fact, if they were taking a collection to buy a copy of The Dragon Book to beat Rasmus Lerdorf to death with, I'd chip in extra if they promised to scream "use of uninitialised variables is an error, not a warning!!!" as he died.
So when the Rednex' Cotton-Eye Joe came up on my random rotation, I wrote this:
[August 2006]
If it hadn't been for Rasmus's toy
I'd be done and set to deploy
What were you thinking, what was the ploy?
Why did you build it, Rasmus's toy?
It sits on the web like a steaming big turd
The hacks it relies on are plainly absurd
The rules that it breaks were already well known
When Rasmus's Pa wasn't even half grown
It brings disaster wherever it's used
Demanding that all common sense be abused
The script-kiddies say it's a wonder and joy
And that says it all about Rasmus's toy
I'd been catching the bus to work, which involved hearing the sort of AM radio that bus drivers like to crank up. It's not good. This came to me, to the tune of Wall Of Voodoo's Mexican Radio.
[March 2004]
I hear a deep voice on the speaker
And a view of the world that is bleaker
Turn the dial and check the station
Leave it on in grim fascination
I hear the bell ring for an ad break
It's an odd distinction to make
I hear the calm tones as he's preaching
Can't understand just who's he reaching?
I'm on a redneck radio, oh
I'm on a redneck radio
I listen in to all the speakers
They talk about asylum seekers
Who will win the next election
Lots of talk, no introspection
I'm on a redneck radio, oh
I'm on a redneck radio
I wish I was on Mars or Venus
Where they don't know what Valvoline is
Nobody rants on the telephone
To say the gooks should all go home
I hear a deep voice, getting louder
Promoting warfare and washing powder,
I hear the calm tones as he's preaching
Can't understand just who's he reaching?
Radio radio...
Another in the vein of The Australian Experience, about life in, respectively, Lochac and Australia. I wrote the SCA version first, then translated for a choral audience.
[mid-1999]
Oh, oh, River Haven's rotten, hot 'n sweaty all the time,
And it rains so hard in Rowany it surely is a crime.
Folks in foggy Ynys Fawr, I swear, can barely see their feet
And Polit will only stop the snow to fit in extra sleet.
Oh the air's so hot in Innilgard, it's hard to take a breath
And Aneala's bloody sun and wind'll bake you half to death.
Oh, of all the Lochac climates, there is only one I love.
Only Stormhold has variety: it's all of the above!
House Smithfield was, for many years, a legend in Rowany and Politarchopolis. This gradually faded as they got old and respectable and started (gasp!) breeding, but before the Real World overwhelmed them they had one last party. This is a song about that. The tune is Hotel California by the Eagles.
[1993]
In a dark sweaty loungeroom, green slime on the floor
Womb noise on the CD, nude men at the door
Up ahead in the kitchen, I smell a hideous stench
Party nibbles from a year ago, left to breed on the bench
There she sat on an armchair, I heard a puppy bark
And she was saying to herself, this could be boring, this could be a lark
So I gave her some pizza, and I sat by her seat
In a voice of calm authority said, there's folks here you should meet
Welcome to the Smithfield Sanitorium
Such a sordid place, can you stand the pace?
Plenty of life at the Smithfield Sanitorium
Certain times of year, there are parties here
Their kittens play in the ceiling, their puppies live in the yard
They've got lots of silly, silly fools, they're getting spa'd
How they soak in the bathtub, sweet cubic pool
Some sit there relaxing, some sit there and drool
So I called up the Denbo, I said please deal with the mess
He said, we haven't had a clean-up here since I first went O.S.
And still that kitchen was crowdling with noise and feet
Keep you up through the middle of the night, just to watch them eat
Welcome to the Smithfield Sanitorium
Such a sordid place, can you stand the pace?
Plenty of life at the Smithfield Sanitorium
Such a nice surprise, better imunize
Bodies on the sofa, ashtrays on the ground
And all the huddled next-door neighbours hear every worrisome sound
In the hall's long reaches they undress for the spa
They fill it with a bromine mix but it feeds bacteria
Last thing I remember I was crawling for the door
I had to find a breath of air that was oxygen and no more
"Lie down," said the sex gods, "we are programmed to corrupt
"You can stay here any time you like and we will not interrupt!"
I wrote this for Crit, who said it couldn't be done.
[late 1998]
I ate too much dinner;
My face has gone purple.
An aspirin won't help me,
But maybe a burp'll.
A song set on Terry Pratchett's Discworld. On the Discworld, the eighth son of an eighth son is a Wizard, and the eighth son of a Wizard is a Sourcerer. A Sourcerer is a source of pure, raw Magic, which is a power source combining the cuddliness of napalm with the timidity of antimatter, but with attitude. Needless to say, celibacy among wizards is strongly encouraged. To the tune of Russians, by Sting.
[January 1996]
In countries on the Circle Sea
There's a well-known phobia of sourcery.
Conditioned by the tales our mothers told
Of the heretical creatures in the hubland cold.
Mister Sourcerer says he can change the Disc;
I'd much prefer not to take the risk.
It's such a dangerous thing to do,
When the Wizards have eight children too.
How can a Wizard's little boy
Be often highly strung and coy?
There would very probably be no defence,
From Agatea to the Circumfence.
They made some strange biology;
Regardless of Disc ecology;
Believe me when I say to you,
I hope the Wizards don't make children too.
It is no hysterical accident,
To have a wife seven times gotten preg-a-nent!
There's no such thing as a celibate Wiz;
They can try to just believe that there is.
Mister Wizard says he's alone for life;
He can't have time for a home and wife.
But there's no proof that this is true,
Unless the Wizards don't make children too!
They made some strange biology;
They mangled the Disc ecology;
But what might save us, me and you,
Is if the Wizards can't stand children too!
The Beloved has coined a word, “Squargle”, for the noise the Boy Wonder makes on occasion. For some reason, it inspired this filk of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Tit Willow.
[December 2007]
On a bed with a pillow a little round boy
Said “Squargle, oh squargle, oh squargle”
And I said to him, “Son, does it give you much joy,
Singing ‘Squargle, oh squargle, oh squargle’”
“Is it weakness of intellect, Hughie?” I cried
“Or a Mummy-juice glut in your little inside”
With a shake of his bald little head, he replied
“Oh squargle, oh squargle, oh squargle!”
He viewed me intently with never a smile,
Singing “Squargle, oh squargle, oh squargle”
And kicked with his dear little feet all the while,
Saying squargle, oh squargle, oh squargle
He snorked and he sighed, and a gurgle he gave
Then a look of relief made his features less grave
And an odour arose from the pants of that knave,
“Oh squargle, oh squargle, oh squargle”
Now I’m fairly convinced that no diction’ry yet
Contains squargle, oh squargle, oh squargle.
However, I’m sure I shall never forget
His “Squargle, oh squargle, oh squargle”
And if you need translation to figure it out,
Examine his nappy, and you’ll have no doubt
Of the matter he’s seeking to tell us about:
“Oh squargle, oh squargle, oh squargle”
An answering machine message in the style of Jabberwocky.
[2001]
Twas message, and the telephones
Did ring and whistle when engaged
All Telstra were the dial tones
And the phone books white paged
Beware the answerphone, my son
The voice that talks, the tone that beeps
Be sure to leave your name, but shun
Replies that go for weeks
For some reason, I had the old Stan Jones classic Ghost Riders In The Sky in my head all day, and thanks to a fan's website I was able to listen to multiple versions. However, that just made me think it needed to be filked. For some reason, the Terry Bisson short story They're Made Of Meat just seemed to fit; gods know why, but it probably has something to do with this utterly brilliant fan-produced short film version. So go read the story, and then read on for my filked version combining these two classics.
A routine scan of signals from a minor galaxy
Revealed a nasty secret on the planet numbered three:
A race of warlike bipeds who, if I may be discreet,
Have brains and also bodies all constructed out of meat.
Alien minds, alien brains,
Oh god, they're made of meat.
We picked up several natives on our vessels to be probed,
Their brains are fairly complex, carbon-based and multi-lobed,
They don't survive for very long, they need to breathe and eat;
They clearly think and reason, but they talk by flapping meat.
Alien minds, alien brains,
Oh god, they're made of meat.
Their radio transmissions made us think they could be more;
They want to talk and swap ideas, and also to explore.
We should extend the pseudopod of friendship, not retreat,
But can you just imagine that -- to try to talk to meat!
Alien minds, alien brains,
Oh god, they're made of meat.
We'll just erase the records and forget that we were here.
It's not as if they'll notice if we softly disappear.
There's lots of other sentiences elsewhere we can greet --
No need to waste another day on silly dreams of meat.
Alien minds, alien brains,
Oh god, they're made of meat.
Oh god, they're made of meat.
John Denver died. I filked Thank God I'm A Country Boy. What more do you need to know?
[1998?]
Well, life on a farm has never been fun,
I get real pissed, threaten Annie with ma gun,
But when I wanna leave, you know I'm gonna run:
Thank God I'm a Cessna boy
A simple kind of life is boring as hell
Gimme moonshine and line or two as well
Police come knockin' on the cabin where I dwell:
Thank God I'm a Cessna boy.
Well I never fly Qantas, I never fly Ansett,
Got my own plane and a radio headset
Long as I don't mind gettin' my feet wet:
Thank God I'm a Cessna boy.
Well I been in movies and on TVs
Singin' 'bout the country and plantin' them trees
I'm gettin' pretty bored, cos you know I'm hard to please
Thank God I'm a Cessna boy
Well, I'll fly my plane to a bay in California
You'll think I died, but boy I gotta warn ya
It worked for Elvis, and for Buddy, and Diana
Thank god I'm a Cuban boy!
(Hasta la vista, Annie!)
To the tune and in the vein of Tom Lehrer's The Elements (which is in turn a filk of Gilbert and Sullivan's Modern Major General), this is a list of the books of the old and new testaments of the bible.
[1986?]
There's Lamentations, Habakkuk and First and Second Chronicles
And Exodus, Leviticus and plus a pair of Samuels
Ecclesiastes, Obadiah, Ruth, Hosea, Daniel
And Jonah, Judges, Joshua and Genesis, Ezekiel
There's Nehemiah, Song of Songs, and Micah, Ezra, Malachi
And Proverbs, Amos, Zechariah, Kings and sequel, Jeremi-
ah, Numbers, Esther, Zephaniah, Micah, Nahum, Joel, Haggai
Isaiah, Job, the book of Psalms and lastly Deuteronomy.
Then Revelations, Jude, Galations, two of Peter, Philemon
And Matthew, Romans, Acts, Ephesians, both Corinthians, Luke & John
The Thessalonians in a pair, and Titus and Phillipians
And three of John and Mark and James, and Hebrew, Tim, Collossians
And thus in matters biblical, I'd scarcely be ironical
To say my knowledge heretofore is ordered yet canonical.
Along with Greensleeves and Green Grow The Rushes, Oh, one of the traditionally unavoidable filkees is The Twelve Days Of Christmas. When I was living with my parents, we did the other traditional, unavoidable thing and repainted the whole house. This song is pretty much exactly how it happened.
[mid-1990s sometime]
In the first week of cleaning my mother gave to me
A house painted purple and green
In the second week of cleaning my mother gave to me
New bathroom taps
And a house painted purple and green
In the third week of cleaning my mother gave to me
Fairly cleanish carpet
New bathroom taps
And a house painted purple and green
In the fourth week of cleaning my mother gave to me
Floors full of boxes
Fairly cleanish carpet
New bathroom taps
And a house painted purple and green
In the fifth week of cleaning my mother gave to me
A new cat door
Floors full of boxes
Fairly cleanish carpet
New bathroom taps
And a house painted purple and green
In the sixth week of cleaning my mother gave to me
A loo-paper holder
A new cat door
Floors full of boxes
Fairly cleanish carpet
New bathroom taps
And a house painted purple and green
In the seventh week of cleaning my mother gave to me
Trailer-fulls of rubbish
A loo-paper holder
A new cat door
Floors full of boxes
Fairly cleanish carpet
New bathroom taps
And a house painted purple and green
In the eighth week of cleaning my mother gave to me
Empty Mr Sheen tins
Trailer-fulls of rubbish
A loo-paper holder
A new cat door
Floors full of boxes
Fairly cleanish carpet
New bathroom taps
And a house painted purple and green
In the ninth week of cleaning my mother gave to me
Relocated paintings
Empty Mr Sheen tins
Trailer-fulls of rubbish
A loo-paper holder
A new cat door
Floors full of boxes
Fairly cleanish carpet
New bathroom taps
And a house painted purple and green
In the tenth week of cleaning my mother gave to me
Junk for garage sales
Relocated paintings
Empty Mr Sheen tins
Trailer-fulls of rubbish
A loo-paper holder
A new cat door
Floors full of boxes
Fairly cleanish carpet
New bathroom taps
And a house painted purple and green
In the eleventh week of cleaning my mother gave to me
Laid-on hot water
Junk for garage sales
Relocated paintings
Empty Mr Sheen tins
Trailer-fulls of rubbish
A loo-paper holder
A new cat door
Floors full of boxes
Fairly cleanish carpet
New bathroom taps
And a house painted purple and green
In the twelfth week of cleaning my mother gave to me
Chiropractic bills
Laid-on hot water
Junk for garage sales
Relocated paintings
Empty Mr Sheen tins
Trailer-fulls of rubbish
A loo-paper holder
A new cat door
Floors full of boxes
Fairly cleanish carpet
New bathroom taps
And a house painted purple and green
To the tune of Nick Cave's The Weeping Song. Mr Cave is incredibly soulful, and one of the most talented suicidal gothic maniacs on the music scene today.
[May 1998]
Go son, go down to the hotels
And see the pub bands whingeing there
Then go up into the stadiums
The bands, they are whingeing too
Father, why are all the musos whingeing?
They are whingeing 'cause it's cool
Then why do all the punters listen?
Hell at least they're not those Spice Girl fools
This is a whingeing song
A song inpired by goths
And dead Kurt Cobain's wrath
This is a whingeing song
And they go on whingeing long
Father, why are all the critics list'ning?
They are merely boring, son
O, are they slightly braindead, father?
Yes, good music is dead and gone
This is a whingeing song
For angst-infected grunge
As bouncy as a sponge
This is a whingeing song
And they just keep whingeing on
O father tell me, am I whingeing?
This music truly sucks
O then I'm so bothered, father
They don't deserve to earn all those bucks
This is a whingeing song
A song for Triple J
We should chase those guys away
This is a whingeing song
But I won't be list'ning long
There's too many boring songs
Full of angst and just plain wrong
And I'd rather eat a thong
Mr Kearey requested a song about RFC 1855, the Netiquette Guidelines document prepared in 1995 for users of all manner of internet services. Here it is, to the tune of Tomorrow Belongs To Me from Cabaret:
[July 2000]
The 'Net is a creature of patches and parts,
As free as the hawk on the breeze,
With billions of voices and hands and hearts,
Ruled only by RFCs.
O, Internet RFC 1-8-5-5,
Your paragraphs murmer to me!
No protocol yet keeps the 'Net alive
As well as this RFC.
When mailing, recall that the 'Net's not secure;
Let copyright laws be your guide;
Ignore any chains; let your quotes stay pure;
Flame not; use a sig; don't chide.
Check every address; mark your messages "long";
Use smileys and caps sparingly;
Don't send an attachment; kneejerks are wrong;
So speaketh this RFC.
O, Internet RFC 1-8-5-5,
Your sections are wise as can be!
A luser or guru will surely thrive
By trusting this RFC.
When chatting, be patient and always assume
That talk is as cheap as the dirt;
When posting to news, don't send spam, or Boom!
Some hax0r will make you hurt!
The guidlines exist both for wisemen and fools,
They're meant to be read carefully;
For can you imagine what chaos rules
Without such an RFC?
O, Internet RFC 1-8-5-5,
Our last and best hope, patently
The 'Net is a queen-less and smoke-filled hive
Without such a thing
Without such a thing
Without such an RFC!
I wrote this long before Good News Week was cancelled, but somewhat after it ceased to be particularly worth watching. It used to be bitingly satirical and almost always witty, but when it moved from the ABC to a commercial TV station it turned into just another attempt to grope at the Inner City twenty-something market. But in honour of their earlier glory, here's a filk of the Hunters and Collectors' Throw Your Arms Around Me.
[late 1999]
They would come to us at night time
Friday evening, ABC
Mikey, Paul and also Julie
The only program on TV
And they would squeeze the fun out of news
And Mikey made you laugh, Paul made you swoon
But now you'll have to forget them
Now the ratings called their name, they'll be looking for some new employment soon
And we may never see again
Paul's sneer and Sandman's naked bottom
And they may throw Good News Week off air
Yeah, they may throw Good News Week off air
Well they changed the program's air time
All of Ten's commercial guys,
Lord we met the stars of Neighbours
But no Kate Fisher - what surprise!
Now if they disappear out of view
You know that we will never let them go
For though I'm sure they'll regret it
They'll be back before you blink, doing breakfast on a Sydney radio
And we may never see again
The Gap or Julie singing Beatles
And they may throw Good News Week off air
Yeah, they may throw Good News Week off air
And we may never see again
The Soundproof Booth and Pauly singing
And they may throw Good News Week off air
Yeah, they may throw Good News Week off air
Filk doesn't have to be funny. It can be nasty, if you try hard enough. This is dedicated to one of my ex-girlfriends in particular, but a few others in general. Paul Jones suggested changing "shave my neck" to "shave my tongue", which was especially clever. It's to the tune of Crowded House's Four Seasons In One Day, which appears to have become the Melbourne choral scene's anthem, despite being written about Sydney.
[March 1996]
Two strangers in one bed
Flying in the face of any simple wisdom
Worlds apart and miles between
The moon shines on the bra strap hanging on the bedside chair
Every time you've had your fun
The interest is gone and dead
Like two strangers in one bed
Snoring as the sun comes out
You can tell a man from how he greets the day
Ugly taste is in my mouth
And I will shave my tongue again (again)
You can treat me like a toy
'Cause you're a girl and I'm a boy
It's never mattered what I've said
To two strangers in one bed
Now I've lost
The thread, the thread
What's the cost
Of two strangers in one bed
(Instrumental break)
It doesn't pay to steal the blankets
Lying in a queensize bed
Finding out whenever she wants comfort I get cold
Doona's so hard to hold
For two strangers in one bed
Now I've lost
The thread, the thread
What's the cost
Of two strangers in one bed
Senator Amanda Vanstone is only one of the disasters launched upon the Australian public by their inability to vote for anyone who isn't a worthless pillock. The tune to this should be blatantly obvious, but in case you weren't schooled in the classics, think "yabba-dabba-doo".
[May 1996]
Vanstone, Mandy Vanstone, she's a visigoth in comfy shoes.
Vanstone, Mandy Vanstone, never met a friend she could not use.
Let's cheer when she says she isn't bright;
That's one thing she got exactly right;
Vanstone, Mandy Vanstone, she's an easy woman to confuse.
Vanstone, Mandy Vanstone, great believer in equality:
"Let them sell bananas, it was good enough for folks like me!"
One day, when we're rid of Howard's way,
Still we can look back at her and say:
Vanstone, Mandy Vanstone, you're the model politician --
Devoid of vision --
Until the last degree!
Canberra decided to burn down in January 2003. This is to the tune of the Beach Boys' song of the same name, and it commemorates the thoughts on everyone's minds at the time.
[20 January 2003]
Wouldn't it be nice if it were raining,
Then we wouldn't see the trees explode,
And wouldn't it be nice to watch the sunset
Without the sound of sirens down the road.
You know it's gonna be a lovely story
To tell our kids - but now it's Purgatory!
Wouldn't it be nice to just be snoring
In the morning when the day is new
And not to have to wait all night with hoses
Hoping those containment lines hold true
Happy lives we could instead be spending
I kind of hope our lives will not be ending
Wouldn't it be nice
Maybe if
We grab a garden hose and spray, we might pull through.
Baby, then
We only need to hope the skies return to blue
Here we are, frying...
It's better than dying...
Wouldn't THAT be nice!
You know it seems, with all this fuss and fighting
The country life is looking less inviting
But we'll keep on fighting!
Wouldn't it be nice...
Another essential topic for filkers in this year of several numeric irrelevancies: the Y2K bug. This is to the tune of Scotland The Brave.
[Spring 1999]
Right there in Revelations,
Saint John informed the nations;
All of his divinations could not be waived!
Satan would be returning,
Hellfire would soon be burning
Then you should think of turning: turn and be saved!
Now with the new millennium
Nearing, it's true that many a m-
-An goes to church and claims he's been well-behaved.
But there's a danger lurking,
All those who have been shirking:
When your machines stop working, hope that you saved!
Way back in distant history
Computers were a mystery
Big, squarish and transistery
Creatures of fear
So, just to stay in budget
Programmers had to fudge it:
Chop off the first two digits of every year.
Data is swiftly dying,
Airplanes no longer flying
Sirens are loudly crying down at Lucas Heights!
Speak your farewell oration
For western civ'lisation
Last one to leave damnation please get the lights!
The rarest of all, pretty much, are the songs that aren't about the SCA or choir. This is it for that, so far.
We went to Adelaide for IV. I was amazed.
[January 2001]
Oh, the Sydney cops'll sell you drugs, the Melbourne cops'll shoot ya,
The Brisbane cops are focused on the bright caucasion future,
The Hobart cops just sit at home all clustered 'round the heater,
But every cop in Adelaide is a human parking meter!
Three cheers for Adelaide
It's Colonel Light's creation
You won't catch cold and you can't get lost
But you just might die of dehydration
The restaurants in Melbourne town are rated very high and
You can't been Newtown, Sydney, if you want the taste of Thailand,
You won't mind Canberra's cafes if you like sundried tomato,
But all you need in Adelaide is a big dish of gelato.
(Chorus, with slurping noises)
The drivers down in Hobart drive like country bumpkin yokels,
The high-stress roads of Sydney would be best left to the locals,
And Brisbane's just the place to see some high-speed front-seat mooning,
But Adelaide's the mecca for a nation's-worth of hooning!
(Chorus, with revving)
A dramatisation of the scene in Alice's Adventures Through The Looking Glass that gave the Fabulous Monster her nickname.
[late 1999]
Said the Unicorn to Alice,
"I mean you no malice,
"But I'm rather surprised you exist!"
Said Alice to the Unicorn,
"I'm amazed you were ever born.
"I was told you're a fictional twist!"
But oh, you're a fabulous monster
And oh, you're a wondrous surprise
I'm sure you're a dream
Or a glimmer or gleam
When I gaze in your glorious eyes!
Said the beast to the beauty,
"I'm sure it's my duty,
"To be otherwise elsewhere employed,
"But I'd rather be sitting here
"For it's so much more fitting here
"Where the day can be rightly enjoyed."
Said the human to the herbivore,
"I've not had such fun before,
"This is soothing and sweet to my mind.
"Mr Carroll's a lovely man,
"But I'm tired of his clever plan:
"I'd prefer to relax and unwind!"
Said the She to the Chimera,
"But daylight grows dimmer, a
"Young Lady should not stand about."
Said the creature with a little sigh,
"I shall see you when the sun is high,
"We shall dance once again, I've no doubt."
I wrote this years and years ago, and just found it tonight when I was rummaging through an old backup CD looking for incriminating photos of a friend of mine. It's fiction, of course, which is why it works. Think of it as being sung by a real genuine Aussie bloke, circa ages ago.
[Mid-1993]
I met a lady at the races
The sort to floor the toughest bloke
She won a fortune in a minute, so she did
And spent it all till she was broke
Her eyes were utterly bewitching
Her smile could brighten up the day
Until she happened not to like a thing I said
And then her face was thunder grey
Chorus:
It never rains but it pours, dear
It never rains but it pours
She's either breathless or she snores, dear
She either nags or she ignores.
And so I asked for her hand then
She told me gladly, and she smiled
But if I thought she made me mad when first we met
Then being married drove me wild
(Chorus)
She never did a spot of cleaning
She never raised her hand to cook
And when I asked her for a husband's holy due
She gave me nothing but a look
(Chorus)
And when I told her I'd an urging
To pass my name to younger kin's
She got a look inside her lovely ruby eyes
And nine months later gave me twins!
(Chorus)
Imagine you're a werewolf. Imagine you're in love. Funny how you lose track of time, eh? Well no, not all that funny, really...
[Late 1999]
In a moment before moonrise when the land holds its breath,
In the shadows before moonrise in my arms she is still.
In the darkness under starlight, when the shape of the moon
Is a mystery, until moonrise, I am awaiting His will.
In the darkness of the new moon, when He dresses in grey,
With His cape of the black empty space,
He is cold dark in His silence, but He troubles me not
To be changed by His terrible face.
I give nothing to my lover but the truth of my nights,
She receives me, and loves me no less.
And I wonder at her beauty and the love in her eyes,
And I wonder at her gentle caress.
(Chorus)
In the waxing and the waning, when His half-face shines new,
When he blesses the children of earth,
There is time still for the follies of the innocent night
For His sons half-awaiting their birth.
She has bound me with her pleasures, but my hands are untied;
She has caught me in no net but her love.
And a net is a shadow and her bindings are dreams
When He shows me His face from above.
(Chorus)
This is what I've been doing with myself since I moved back from Sydney.
[Some time in 2002 or early 2003]
Oh, hearken to my tale of woe, a song of dismal fate;
A story just as sad as one a beggar might relate;
A tragedy as full of tears as any told to date;
Oh, hearken to my tale of woe -- before it's all too late!
I used to be a single man whose life was fancy-free;
I'd spend my days a-writing songs, or doing heraldry;
My nights were always spent at home, alone invariably;
I used to be a simple man -- but now, just look at me!
I met a lass, a wench, a maid (or none of the above);
Where fate might nudge another man, to me it gave a shove!
I tried my hardest to deny, she fit me like a glove;
I met a lass, a wench, a maid -- and cursed was I by love!
My listener may well expect it wouldn't be so long
Before a fellow in my shoes would sing a happy song;
My reasons to be cheery must be showing, clear and strong;
My listener may well expect as much -- and you'd be wrong!
I'll tell you what the trouble is; I'm sure you'll not believe:
It's minstrelsong and heraldry, the blazon and the breve;
The arts that used to fill my days, the feats I'd then achieve;
I'll tell you what the trouble is -- and how I come to grieve.
My lady now consumes my days with kisses and with sighs;
I have no time for paint or pen: she'll brook no compromise!
I spend my days (oh woe!) in bliss, my nights as well, likewise;
My lady now consumes my days -- will no man sympathise?
Some very old and quite new poetry on general topics, from religion to computer programming.
In another forum, I was asked in passing, "... I wonder, is there truly a language that does not suck?"
Having programmed in around thirty programming languages of one sort or another, my short answer would have to be, "No, they all suck equally, except for Java which sucks slightly more." But instead, I decided to answer in filk.
(These are the languages I know or plan shortly to learn, in approximately the order I learned them.)
[September 2006]
BASIC was a clumsy plaything,
Good for kids and not much more;
Fortran was a revelation
Back in 1954;
Forth was built for one curmudgeon,
Never should have been released;
Pascal taught that chains and bondage
Are required to tame the beast;
PET machine code seemed nostalgic
Even when it first came out;
COBOL was for dull accountants,
Not for humans, have no doubt;
C was PDP assembler,
Yet was used for every task;
Prolog answered all the questions
That you don't know how to ask;
MS-DOS was good for scripting
Only if your dreams are small;
Six-Eight-Thousand was symmetric,
Animate a bouncing ball;
Parlog taught new ways of thinking,
Shame it only worked in school;
Ada -- Ronald Reagan's baby --
Like him: ugly, bloated tool;
Logo had some clever features
Hid behind its turtle face;
80x86 Assembler,
Ugly muscle won the race;
Dear old Billy's Visual Basic
Gave crap shareware to the masses;
C++ was bloat on steroids,
Kneed our groins and kicked our asses;
Delphi found the perfect balance,
Shame about the market share;
CSS is website ethics
In a world that doesn't care;
Lexx and Yacc are good for making
Yet more entries in this list;
JavaScript's the tool of choice for
Little boys who've ne'er been kissed;
Perl's the great Swiss Army Chainsaw
(Cat's walked on the bloody keys!);
Lua's built to Keep It Simple,
Found the sweet spot, aims to please;
SQL is Bertrand Russell
Reinvented by the blind;
XSL was never meant to
Be approached by human mind;
PHP was Perl for those who
Wished that Larry'd not been born;
HTML filled the web with
What the people wanted: porn;
Intercal's an evil joke (on
Purpose, which is something odd);
BrainF*** demonstrates the fact that
Turing knew the mind of God;
Scheme was far too clean and simple
To be used by mortal men;
Unix shell-script still has uses
Here and there and now and then;
LISP may hope to reach its heyday
In another fifty years;
Billy forced C# upon us
'Cause of looming Java fears;
Python turned its whitespace gimmick
Into some religious dream;
Smalltalk drove a single concept
To its ultimate extreme;
Haskell's quite a clever concept
If you've got a PhD;
Ruby's slow but - maybe, one day -
It could be the one for me.
The story of my name, from the Fish License sketch by Messrs Palin, Cleese, Jones, Gilliam, Idle and Chapman.
[1993?]
The man, whose name was Praline, faced the clerk.
Attracting his attention, bade him hark.
"I'd like to buy a licence, for a fish.
"So give me, civil servant, what I wish.
"Excuse me?" said the clerk, "But what was that?"
So Praline grabbed his shirt and told him flat,
"It's nothing too bizarre or esoteric,
"A licence for my fishy comrade, Eric.
"Here, how'd you know my name?" the clerk demanded.
"Not you: the fish," said Praline, being candid.
"An 'alibut, I picked 'im; that was that,
"The others ones were all a bit too flat.
The cleric rudely answered, "You're a loon."
But Praline to his insult was immune.
"I won't be tarred with epithets and slurs!
I love my fish, no matter what occurs.
"And didn't Alan Bullock have a pike?
"Or was it two -- named Norman, both alike.
"And Marcel Proust, the author, had an 'addock.
"Call him a loon, I'll knock you 'cross the paddock!
"So 'and across the form, and do it fast!"
"All right, all right." The clerk agreed at last.
"A licence," he repeated, "for a trout.
"Your sanity and sense are still in doubt!"
"He's still a pet, my Eric, like a cat,
"And thus requires a licence, that is that."
"What rubbish," said the clerk, "for I insist,
"A licence for a cat does not exist."
"It does, it must, it's here, it has to be!"
"I got it in my bag," said Praline, "See?"
He handed him the form; the clerk replied,
"A licence for a dog, but modified!"
"The man was out of licences for cats,
"It's often so, with civil beaurocrats."
"What man?" the cleric asked. "Your story's mad."
"It's sounding more and more like you've been had."
"But look, you silly clerk, I've got the papers!
"It cost me sixty quid - don't get the vapours.
"And more! The one for fruitbats cost me eight.
"I'll soon be stoney broke at such a rate!"
"A fruitbat form?" The clerk was going spare.
"For Eric," said the man, "so have a care!"
"Are all your pets called Eric?" asked the scribe.
"They are," the man replied, "I've got a tribe!"
"For note, the famous Kemal Ataturk
"Kept Abduls by the score, at home and work."
"He never," swore the clerk, "don't try to kid."
But Praline deftly argued, "Did and did!"
"So where's the form for Eric - cut the act."
"There isn't one, there never was in fact."
"There isn't? What a shock! At last I see.
"Then how about a licence for a bee?"
"A bee," the clerk responded, "known as Eric?"
"Exactly," Praline cried, "oh clever cleric."
"For Eric Bee? I'm sure it must be so."
And here the fellow shocked him: he said "No!"
"It isn't Eric Bee, but Half-A-Bee,
"Bisected accidentally by me
"But such a song you must already know.
"Perhaps I'd best give up and off I go."
Something moderately religious, inspired by a friend of mine, Brother (now Father) Joseph Vnuk -- the thinking man's celibate.
[pre-1992]
An entomologist, out of love
Made his only son a grub
He sent him spiderward from above
Down to live beneath a shrub.
And there invertebrate grew the boy
Son of spiders, born and bred
To fine arachnehood, full of joy
An octopoidal life he led.
He spoke in parable, taught a creed
Led his kin toward the light
Until the monarchy, full of greed
Stomped the boy in fear and spite.
But still his followers spread the word
What he did was not in vain
The entomologist (how absurd!)
Lets his mighty love remain.
In the style of, and with apologies to, Dorothea Mackellar: a quicky on the subject of the recent bushfires.
[January 2002]
I'd love an unburnt country,
A land equipped with trees,
Whose rugged coastal forests
Aren't ashes on the breeze.
I'd love a far horizon
That I can clearly see:
More beauty! Much less terror!
A wide GREEN land for me!
I assume you're familiar with The Deeper Meaning Of Liff, by Douglas Adams and John Lloyd? If not, go get familiar, dammit! This is a tragic tale of lost love, in Liffian language. At least it's not Klingon! (See Doch naS for that, if you must.)
[March 1992]
The Manitoba's no more use, our love is passed away.
Attempting to be Prungle isn't fun.
My Willimantic tendencies have seen the light of day,
Enough to make my other brain a Clun.
Our Inigonish breakup left me Eakring and forlorn,
As Brabant as a Belding unawares.
We never did Inverinate, we spoke in Sittingbourne;
All Callicut (yet Libode) were our stares.
My Phillack's cold and dusty, any Bures I had are healed
Now Peening Quarter's where I have to live
I Hoffed at all the omens till the light our love revealed
Went Fring and gave the last it had to give
The rising tide of Lusbies doesn't help my state of mind:
At any hint of Budby I'm Scugog.
But she's a Lidiard Tregoze and she's left me far behind,
More Udine than a rabid wild dog.
Foregoing Low Ardwello, as it's never been my style,
The Mointiness is fading like the night.
To practice Farrancassidy's unlikely for a while
(A pity, since I'd like to get it right).
Our love became an Araglin, this Banteer's proof of that,
With me a knight and she a bitter squire.
My heart's so full of Bealings they'll be coming out my hat;
I cease to rhyme; with Beppu I retire.
One of my favourite sayings is that "the single solitary advantage of being a pessimist is that all your surprises are happy ones". I'm an optimist, and I'm right more often.
[1992]
Despite attempts to raise my hopes,
With scant regard for horoscopes,
And full contempt for Delphic dreams,
I'm sure that all is as it seems.
The shining sun I'll disregard,
The chirping birds from mind are barred,
With shooting stars and signs of luck
And omens bright, I'll have no truck.
I'll analyse, with logic chill,
Statistics standing starkly still,
And never mind the hopeful heart
For, faced with fact, it must depart.
The cheerful word and welcome smile
Are Greek to every dataphile,
And optimistic words and cheer
Will hardly find a welcome here!
I was originally told this story as if it had happened to a gaming friend of mine, Eric the Saint. However, I got a message from one Richard Aronson, claiming authorship of the original story. I believe him to be entirely truthful in this claim, so I have added the appropriate attribution.
[May 1993]
Based on the story by Richard Aronson. Abstracted with permission.
In a vale beside a hummock in the Spring of '17
Sat a fighter known as Eric (no relation).
With his squire, a wizened fighter, Eric gazed upon a scene,
And was filled from toe to top with trepidation.
What he saw was fairly iffy, for it has to be explained
That the fellow known as Eric had a problem
With his eyes - the years of fighting left his beady peepers strained
And the sunlight only served to further knobble 'em
But his squire was not so troubled; he could see as clear as day.
If he weren't so old he'd gladly lead the mission.
As it was, his knees were rheumy and his hair was turning grey;
He was hardly made for jobs more tough than fishin'.
So they sat, the Squire and Eric, and they gazed upon a hill,
Where they saw a massive shape, bereft of motion.
Eric asked his old companion, "Kindly tell me, if you will,
"What it is I see; I haven't any notion."
Here his squire became didactic; in a teacher's haughty tone
He replied, "It's not a mystery to me, no.
"It's a thing that in the tropics now is very widely known:
"What you see upon the hill is a gazebo."
"A gazebo!" gasped the fighter. "From the tropics, so you said!
"What a shock to see it here, with us before it!
"We shall fight as God commands, until the thing is lying dead!
"I'll never catch it sleeping and ignore it!"
"I shall strangle this gazebo," shouted Eric, "by the neck!
"I shall roast its fearsome toes in boiling oil!"
Eric's squire was quite astonished, but he figured, "What the heck.
"He's the boss; it wouldn't do to be disloyal."
But he felt he'd best explain it, lest his master lose the plot.
"This gazebo's easy ten or twelve foot high!"
"What a monster!" Eric cried. "It's too immense for my garrotte.
"I shall take a bow and let an arrow fly!"
This he did; his aim was shonky, so he tried and tried some more.
"Did I hit it?" Eric asked. The squire said yes.
"Does it die? Or is it angry?" Eric yearned to know the score.
"No reaction," said the squire, "I must confess."
"No reaction!" echoed Eric. "We must leave this hellish place
"This gazebo's like to kill us, if we stay!"
Here his squire could keep no longer that serenely placid face.
He guffawed; his mirth was boundless, sad to say.
Then at length the agéd squire took his squinting boss aside,
And told the truth, in scathing words and biting.
"From the Latin word 'gazebus', meaning 'hut to sit inside';
"I suspect you're not cut out for all this fighting!"
A sonnet is a poem of 14 lines written to a particular rhythm and rhyme scheme. An acrostic is a poem, the initial letters of each line of which spell out some word or phrase. A Bat is someone with too much time on his hands. What more do you need to know?
Composed on the banks of the Yarra, after realising that Muriel's Concert, aka the Soprano song, wasn't nearly enthusiastic enough about my favourite voice part.
[October 1999]
After much consideration, I'm
Led to one conclusion, which is this:
Tenor girls and sops will waste your time;
Only altos bring eternal bliss.
Something in their husky, tuneful tones
Activates an instinct deep inside.
Resonating through a bass's bones;
Energies that cannot be denied.
Sappho was an alto, you can tell -
Excellence in arts for them's not rare;
Xena too (but not young Gabrielle) -
If you get an alto mad, beware!
Every bass who's tried the alto way
Recommends you do the same, today!
Composed on the hellish flight back from Hobart IV, just before the air pressure turned me into a weeping, screaming wreck.
[July 1999]
As I was sitting locked into my seat,
No less than seven videos awoke.
Sit down -- they said -- and give us your complete
Emergency attention -- and they spoke.
The seats you sit (a little squashed) upon,
They carry belts, so please observe the signs,
And do no dancing, join no walkathon
If, high above, that hieroglyphic shines.
Remain as calm as glass if air should fail.
Look up and grab the oxygen on tap.
If, due to chance, you feel the need to bail,
No worries! Grab your vest and pull the strap --
Expounded thus, the screens went silent there.
So, well-informed, we leapt into the air.
An only slightly ironic ode to the amazing conductor Andrew "Foetus" Wailes. The use of the o-e ligature may be considered cheating, or it may be considered inspired.
[July 1999]
Fairy tale or fable, that he is:
OEdipus, that well-known Mummy's boy;
Tarzan of the jungle music biz;
Ulysses, en route back home from Troy.
Some have called him rival, direst foe;
If they're still around, they're not round here...
Some have called him uncle, cousin, bro;
All have been enriched who hold him near.
What a piece of work, this mighty man!
After all have lost their heads, he stands;
None can match his talent's depth and span;
Knowing him lends strength to all our hands.
Even as we clap that famous beat
Rhythmically, we worship at his feet.
Composed during a SCUNA rehearsal, in honour of a good friend who I don't see nearly enough of any more. Jen is one of those women for whom there is only one possible bumper sticker: "I Think, Therefore I Am Single". Maybe one day some guy will get lucky...
[1998?]
Just once, she says, I'd like a man who could
Exceed my fairly simple standards, which
No one could claim are poorly understood:
Nice buns, a brain, quite tall and filthy rich.
I'm sure the world is full of men like that,
For otherwise our race would die away!
Except... my searches keep on falling flat,
Requiring me to think they must be gay!
Discovering this curse, I feel I'm bound
Exclusively to help -- it could be fun!
Let all those hunky pooftas gather round;
Voraciously I'll cure them, every one!
Eventually she stops, and faintly sighs.
She yawns, and nods, a slumber shuts her eyes.
Composed for and about the thinking man's pervert, known also as Jon the Prevert.
[1998]
Jehovah, when creating man from dust
Of all his features gave most thought to one:
Not reason, neither faith nor wit, but lust,
A quality of which He gave a ton.
This much is clear, to any who observe
Humanity at work or rest or play.
Assuredly, no trait displays the verve,
Not one, from dawn to dying of the day.
Conspicuous indeed is lust in some,
Presented clearly by their every act.
Regardless of decorum, they succumb
In every slightest art and artefact.
Consider, though, not all are trapped by lust:
Exactly one man has that slaver's trust!
Composed at Hobart IV, for one of the most hyperactively talented conductors I've ever met.
[July 1999]
Kill time, if that's your wish, and waste your life.
You'll break no laws by loitering in bed.
No jury will convict, you'll make no strife,
And even Robespierre won't have your head.
No need to set yourself some lofty goal
Designed to help you reach the brightest star.
A calmer man is he whose higher soul
Lies dormant like an onion in a jar
Expect the least; avoid that mental stretch;
Join no Crusades, nor seek for Holy Grails,
Or else you'll join that tragic class of wretch,
He who, when seeking simple boredom, fails!
No hope for peace and calm, if hard you strive:
Success will dog your heels -- if you survive!
Poor old Tomkins Of The Antarctic. This is very rude. Heh heh heh...
[2002?]
Many men, when fickle fortune farts
In their wretched faces, take the hint,
Choose to quench the flame within their hearts,
Hide their dreams like so much navel lint.
Anyone would think this fellow here,
Even though he smiles, is one of those!
Look, however, past his flaws; it's clear:
Tucked within his heart, a furnace glows!
O, ye scathing critics, judge not him
Merely by his grating, nasal drawl!
Know that brow so thick and eye so dim
In fact need not spell "Neanderthal"!
No indeed! This lad is quite unique!
See? To call him apelike would be cheek!
Composed for Nick Sellars, who I call "Mrs" Crit because he is married to Crit, and since Crit is titleless it follows that Nick must be the wife, in proper Jane Austen style.
[1998]
My knowledge of decorum tells me this:
Respectability is paramount!
Solemnity and sobre steadyness:
No qualities compared to these ones count!
If man would gain approval of his peers,
Consideration must be fully paid;
Know this, ye flighty privols, that your fears
So chill are true! The stern game must be played!
Ebullient cheer's a sin! Enjoyment's wrong!
Loud laughter looks all rude, so cut it out!
Let all your breath vent moans of angst, not song;
And never smile or grin, but only pout.
Regardless of the rules, one man remains
So cheerful as to laugh away life's pains!
Composed in choir, again, for a young and talented model and soprano.
[1998]
My years of study of the fairer sex
Support the theory, terrible but true,
Each woman has a choice (for Nature checks):
Some brains, or else good looks, but not the two.
This law denies the smart ones sex appeal,
Effectively leaves models dull as drains;
Regardless of their wishes, that's the deal,
However hard we wish, the law remains.
A tragic case, but what can mortals do?
Revile the heartless universe's laws?
Desire or depth -- which one is first for you?
I'm sure the question gives all males pause.
No matter: one exists who breaks the mould.
Genius brained, yet flawless to behold.
Composed for Crit; and yes, that is her name, on the electoral roll and all.
[1998]
Of all the women in the AICSA choirs,
Undoubtedly the most beloved is
None other than the one whose name inspires
Inventiveness for me, the sonnet whiz.
No woman uses symbols in her name,
Originating on the net, like Ch@s.
Moreover, none would rort the spelling game
Outright, as Gifford/Gyfford/Gyforde has.
Unless you're counting Charis, who is not
Seen widely in a Uni choral role,
Creative self-renaming hasn't got
Remarkable acceptance, on the whole.
It falls, in fact, to one to bear the flame:
To proudly stand without a second name.
Composed at Hobart IV when I was missing my Fabulous Monster terribly.
[July 1999]
Respectfully, my friends at times suggest
A name like "Monster" isn't quite the thing --
Considering the love I've oft expressed,
However did that nasty nickname cling?
Explaining, as I do, the reasons why,
Like Lewis Carroll, unicorns, et al,
My naming seems a little less awry;
My friends perceive the hidden rationale.
Or so they think -- the truth is stranger still,
Enunciated here at last to you:
Regardless of her beauty, brains and skill,
My Lady is a monster -- yes, it's true!
A monster to my loneliness and fear;
No trace of them's survived since she's been near.