1. |
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|
You can sing it to the river, when you’ve drunk it down too low.
You can sing it to the gambler, but it only goes to show
That no matter just how full you are
Of faith, hope, love, and charity,
Every act of creation is an act of parody.
When you play with words and music, and creation is the game,
Then your symbols have the power to replace the ones they maim.
From the structure, rhyme, and scansion, to each note and treble cleft,
Every act of creation is an act of theft.
(Chorus)
When we got the Ten Commandments that define what’s right and wrong,
We were not told not to covet any friend or neighbor’s song.
When you twist around their lyrics, or you take the tune you need,
Every act of creation is an act of greed.
(Chorus)
When we’re in a bardic circle, my creations may be crass,
But if you don’t want to hear one, you can... always hope I’ll pass.
Though when I filk Julia Ecklar, like Frank Hayes has done before,
Every act of creation is an act of war.
(Chorus)
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2. |
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Well, how d'ya do, old Moggy the Cat?
I just noticed you landed where I almost sat.
D'ya mind if I push you a bit to the side?
I've been driving all day on the road where you died.
You've been squashed like some butterfly pressed between glass.
Were you hit by a truck that was moving too fast?
Did he slam on the brake as he saw you go past?
Or, Moggy the Cat, did he step on the gas?
«Chorus:»
Did he honk the horn loudly?
Did you stand your ground proudly?
Did a shadow fall o'er ya as the truck mowed you down?
Did your eyes glow in that fleeting darkness?
Did the birds come and pick at your carcass?
The ground squirrels and mice all seem happy today.
The butterflies frolic; the hummingbirds play.
A mockingbird sits there composing a dirge,
'Til he finally yields to his scavenger urge.
The robins and sparrows all join in the feast,
In their joyous relief that the terror has ceased.
And the birds dance around you, not sad in the least,
Like the Munchkins danced over the Witch of the East.
Old Moggy the Cat, I still wonder why
You road-kill look so damned surprised when you die.
Did you think that some animal spirit survives?
Did you really believe that you cats have nine lives?
Well, if that is true, this is life Number Ten:
Getting ever more flat, spinning 'round now and then,
As the cars run you over again and again,
And again and again and again and again.
|
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3. |
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|
What's this you wrote--using my own tune
With altered words? I fear I'll find out soon.
I cringe and wince at each tasteless pun.
What have you done?
Filksong writer!
Who authored this--this poetic rape?
My imagery, twisted out of shape.
One rhyming word, left there as a crutch:
This has your touch.
Filksong writer!
Parody! Shameless mockery!
Or can it be praise in disguise?
Parody! It's a travesty
Of my work!
Why, you jerk!
Damn your eyes!
Where will it end? Which of us is safe
From songs like these, with words that gall and chafe?
Though this one's done, more will follow after.
I hear your laughter . . .
Filksong writer!
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4. |
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|
When I was young, I used to wonder, didn’t you,
Why Mr. Spock had one head instead of two.
How creatures who are not our distant kin
Would hit on breathing through the pipe that food goes in.
It taught us an unscientific view,
The sameness in a Federation crew.
Chorus:
You’d think the dance of life for several billion years
Would produce more variation than just pointed ears.
It violates the laws we thought we knew,
The sameness in a Federation crew.
We’re closer to a radish than a Romulan,
An unrelated creature of a foreign sun.
How can a Klingon/human couple mate?
She’s closer to the gak that squirms upon her plate.
How could each evolve from different gobs of goo
To the sameness of a Federation crew?
(Chorus)
What makes a moose a moose and not a kangaroo?
Remoteness for a hundred million years or two.
And breeding for a mere few hundred years
Can yield a dog with floppy or with pointed ears.
No billion-year-old seeding program grew
The sameness of a Federation crew.
(Chorus)
Did convergent evolution shape them all by chance,
To fit in Star Fleet’s regulation shoes and pants?
What narcissism makes five-fingered hands
Prerequisites for venturing from native lands?
There’s more richness in a single planet’s zoo
Than the sameness in a Federation crew.
|
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5. |
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|
In the restless shadows, underneath my bed.
Unsympathetic adults claim it's all inside my head.
Ah, but last night in the bedroom, I heard a dry twig snap.
And the horrid sound of dread doom, but I'll catch it in my trap!
Chorus:
Something's under the bed! Better face the facts.
Evil grins as it plots its attacks.
Voices denying they're speaking at all,
Arrows go flying and stick to the wall.
Something's under the bed!
Something's under the bed!
A twisted figure groping, like a spider inside out.
My bedroom door creaked open: several more of them, no doubt.
I knew I was their quarry. My heart went icy cold.
"One more peep and you'll be sorry" was all that I was told.
(Chorus)
Distant footsteps softly pad...
Could be something really bad...
I shot him twice, but it's just my dad!
Something's under the bed!
Something's under the bed!
I thought to prove it truly real and lure it to the light.
Called out I was a juicy meal for a monstrous appetite.
I spotted something pooling, a thick and slimy trail.
Then I realized it was drooling, and began to scream and wail:
(Chorus)
Something's under the bed!
Things that slither and creep when your mom is asleep.
Something's under the bed!
Something's under the bed!
|
||||
6. |
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|
In the crystaline void of orbit’s brink I was there!
I know not where they’ll land me now. It could be anywhere.
When reentry fires have faded, the brightness leaves my sight,
And I find I’m stacked on an aircraft’s back.
Riding home’s gonna take all night.
Chorus: And my engine’s in the ocean. My payload’s on a train.
And I’m a frequent flier when the Cape’s expecting rain.
Yesterday I journeyed for half a million miles.
Now I’m stacked up on an aircraft’s back.
This last part takes a while.
There’s nothing left for me to do but hold on tight!
So self-assured in orbit. Now I find I’m scared of heights!
And I get kind of airsick, ’cause air is not my style.
My knees will shake and my belly ache,
Trying hard just o hold down tiles.
(Chorus)
Before each quarter’s launch, they hope that I’m all there.
To half the Roman pantheon they sing a secret prayer.
Am I lock and stock and barrel of the dream I helped to start?
Is it really true, that I slept through the most exciting part?
(Chorus)
|
||||
7. |
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|
I need a place where I can go.
I need it soon or I may blow up.
I need a place where I can throw up
Replicated food that's even worse than home.
I need a room for my relief.
I need a room for quick debriefing.
Twice a day and once each evening,
I need a place where I can be alone.
I don't care if the ship's high tech.
I don't care if it has a holodeck.
I don't care if there's life support.
Okay I guess I need the life support.
But anything beyond that, I don't care,
As long as there's a place somewhere a man can go.
How we've tried to find it!
Tore apart the bridge and looked behind it.
Who approved this ship and just who the hell designed it?
We'll have to have a word with them when we get home.
How we would have filled it!
Engineering even tried to build it.
Budget overruns are all that ultimately killed it,
For plasma phase inversion tubes alone.
And even though your guts may ache
I know that you will make it
So you'll find a place to go
Right into space.
Who checks the air locks anyhow?
A million years from now it may reach home.
|
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8. |
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|
I was taught assembler in my second year of school.
It’s kinda like construction work with a toothpick for a tool.
So when I made my senior year, I threw my code away,
And learned the way to program that I still prefer today.
Now, some folks on the Internet put their faith in C++.
They swear that it’s so powerful, it’s what God used for us.
And maybe it lets mortals dredge their objects from the C.
But I think that explains why only God can make a tree.
For God wrote in Lisp code
When he filled the leaves with green.
The fractal flowers and recursive roots:
The most lovely hack I’ve seen.
And when I ponder snowflakes, never finding two the same,
I know God likes a language with its own four-letter name.
Now, I’ve used a SUN under Unix, so I’ve seen what C can hold.
I’ve surfed for Perls, found what Fortran’s for,
Got that Java stuff down cold.
Though the chance that I’d write COBOL code
is a SNOBOL’s chance in Hell.
And I basically hate hieroglyphs, so I won’t use APL.
Now, God must know all these languages, and a few I haven’t named.
But the Lord made sure, when each sparrow falls,
that its flesh will be reclaimed.
And the Lord could not count grains of sand with a 32-bit word.
Who knows where we would go to if Lisp weren’t what he preferred?
And God wrote in Lisp code
Every creature great and small.
Don’t search the disk drive for man.c,
When the listing’s on the wall.
And when I watch the lightning
Burn unbelievers to a crisp,
I know God had six days to work,
So he wrote it all in Lisp.
Yes, God had a deadline.
So he wrote it all in Lisp.
|
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9. |
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|
Before primeval was the past, when fairy tales grew very tall,
The giants were not gentlemen in watching where their feet would fall.
So heavy and so clumsy and so mountainous in size,
That walking with a giant was unwise.
Before primeval was the past, mythology was something real,
And swimming holes were markings made by someone’s size six hundred heel,
And giants used to square dance ’round our dwellings on the shore,
And now we cannot dwell there anymore.
Chorus: There must have been a nightmare place
In that old time the Earth once saw:
A place that every kind of creature
Held in superstitious awe.
Where fools and wise men feared to tread.
Where even angels balked.
Where giants walked.
Before primeval was the past, the giants staggered drunk each night,
And all the rare and special beasts stopped in their tracks and froze in fright.
By the time the giants saw them it was usually too late,
And that was how some species met their fate.
Before primeval was the past, they often made a giant error:
As furry creatures scurried off, and little children fled in terror,
The giants made a shambles of department stores and trees,
And often toppled chimneys with their knees.
(Chorus)
But now primeval is the past, and some things should be left unwoken.
The difference that you’ll notice now is how your bones remain unbroken.
Unlike ants who creep inside the cracks we haven’t caulked,
We needn’t watch for where the giants walked.
And since primeval is the past, I hope it’s not reborn anew,
Or else if I don’t watch my step, they’ll scrape me off some giant shoe,
And leave behind so fine a grind my mom won’t know my face.
The big primeval giants had no grace.
(Chorus)
|
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10. |
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|
You broke into my caverns as a glutton after punishment,
And stranger tastes in food I've never known
You're welcome to those tasteless veins of diamonds and dilithium.
Just leave me and my nest of eggs alone
Chorus:
I may be the last on this planet.
The last of a great race's dregs
And if only you'd stop taking them for granite,
You'd see those big stone bowling balls are eggs
You beamed down to this planet when, for reasons then unknown to you,
The men were dying horribly each day.
What kind of crazy creatures send their captain to investigate--
Yet think I'm less intelligent than they?
I may be the last on this planet.
The last of a great race's dregs
And if only you'd stop taking them for granite,
You'd see those big stone bowling balls are eggs
I've killed a few more miners extra gruesomely, to frighten you.
But life, it seems, means nothing much to you.
Perhaps I'll kill a couple of your crew men from Security.
I'll bet you’re not so used to losing crew.
I may be the last on this planet.
The last of a great race's dregs
And if only you’d stop taking them for granite,
You'd see those big stone bowling balls are eggs
I'm etching one last message even you can read. I'm desperate now.
I'm stuck between a hard place and my self.
But make one more complaint about my grammar or my penmanship,
You'll find I'm still a hazard to your health!
I may be the last on this planet.
The last of a great race's dregs
And if only you’d stop taking them for granite,
You'd see those big stone bowling balls are eggs
Can't you see those big stone bowling balls are eggs?
|
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11. |
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|
Deeply into bankruptcy at last it can be told?
A witch and an assassin hatch a plan to get some gold.
They hire several guardsmen, but if all goes as they plan,
They’ll never have to pay ‘em: they’ll be slaughtered to a man.
Three holes in their contract: termination for no cause,
No workman’s compensation, and no life insurance clause.
Disguised as honest women, then, they haggle and cajole
A payment from a businessman whose first and foremost goal
Is vengeance for a daughter lost in one of the attacks.
He figures he’ll deduct it when the King collects his tax.
Three aren’t what they seem: the guard who guards a secret plot,
The lady who’s no lady, and the maiden who is not.
One among the guardsmen drips with gems of costly size.
The witch perceives he also wears a magical disguise.
You might think this alone would be a giveaway right there,
But they’re too busy plotting out their strategy to care.
Three things are no fun: the answer right before your eyes,
A poker hand that’s folded, and a fight where no one dies.
From ambush, as expected, bandits swarm to claim their prize.
The maiden has a mercenary gleam in her cold eyes.
The lady does her nails while all her guardsmen’s blood is spilled.
They cannot prove their innocence except by being killed.
Three things are most perilous: a victim with a grin,
A secret you’re not in on, and a test that you cannot win.
The maiden watches helplessly throughout the whole attack,
Then hacks up half the hoodlums with one hand behind her back.
The lady makes a gesture and the other half are fried.
The guardsmen gesture back, as they lie dying on the side.
Three things never count on when your life is on the line:
A sword with rust, a bow with cracks, and a woman’s sense of time.
The witch decides what shape the traitor’s punishment will be.
Her positive self-image is revealed for all to see.
The worst thing she can think of’s not a newt or bat or toad.
She turns him to a woman, and then sets him on the road.
Three things that you’ll never find: a hen’s tooth on a goose,
A woman’s sense of humor, and chameleons you turn loose.
Three easy steps to justice were to grab the guards in doubt,
Then butcher the whole bunch and let the Goddess sort them out.
They spare a few sad glances at the loyal men cut down...
And then they count their booty and ride laughing back to town.
Three survived unscathed: the mage whose sword knows every trick,
The fighter who’s a cleric, and the guard who called in sick.
|
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12. |
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|
Antlers clash. Horse whips sting.
Shiny sleigh bells’ piercing ring.
Flanks half numb from the arctic cold.
Muscles strain with weight untold.
Midnight run with flame-red nose.
Climb to where the jet stream flows.
Half a billion girls and boys.
How many of them can we bring toys?
Follow flight plans as you’re told,
Lest their little hearts grow cold.
Air raid from the land of ice.
We’ll make sure they all act nice.
Buzz each child’s neighborhood.
Work ’til every one is good.
Naughty thoughts that hope destroys.
How many of them can we bring toys?
Guard your payload of presents well.
Thieves could steal a lot to sell.
Light upon each chimney top.
At speeds like ours, it’s hard to stop.
Use your hooves and use your head,
Don’t let down the man in red
Lifting off with grace and poise.
How many of them can we bring toys?
Dawn is near, the time is short.
(Human aircraft: hard to port!)
We eight creatures of the night
Work as one in silent flight.
Let not one damn house pass by.
(Who taught that guy how to fly?)
Each year brings more girls and boys.
How many of them can we bring toys?
|
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13. |
Meltdown (Julia Ecklar)
04:25
|
|||
|
Wishing
For a child to hold.
Make me one,
Lovers.
The Sun has been cooling
That feeds us with its light.
Our whole population
May starve in the night.
Our whole population
Is dwindling in size,
We must find new sources
Before our demise.
In the setting Sun,
Melancholy is my friend;
And I grudge my love, dreading the day
My life will someday end.
We must find new sources. / / Trembling
Unlikely that we will. / / In the dark of night.
It's a cruel fact of Nature / / Comfort me,
That stars run downhill. / / Lover.
A cruel fact of Nature; / / Shivering
We're grasping now at straws / / In the winter chill.
As we look for a loophole / / Care for me,
In entropy's laws. / / Lover.
Sorrow seizes me / Needing
After every time we melt / You to warm our way.
And I search my soul, needing to know / Melt with us,
Why I should feel such guilt. / Lover.
Blending blissfully, / Worried
Passing days I can't recall. / You're so weak and thin.
So I starve myself, sensing a fate / Eat for us,
I feel I should forestall. / Lover.
We've found a solution: / Sorrow seizes me / Needing
A Universe outside. / After every time we melt / You to warm our way.
And both worlds will prosper; / And I search my soul, needing to know / Melt with us,
We'll serve as their guide. / Why I should feel such guilt. / Lover.
And both worlds will prosper, / Blending blissfully, / Worried
But not for very long; / Passing days I can't recall. / You're so weak and thin.
For their Sun will go nova / So I starve myself, sensing a fate / Eat for us,
Its size is all wrong. / I feel I should forestall. / Lover.
Their Sun will go nova:
Abundant heat and light!
It's a long-term solution/
To our race's plight.
A long-term solution, / Such insanity!
Though not without a cost. / You would lure them to their fall,
For our own race's future, / When they trusted us, helping a plan
A world must be lost. / You knew would kill them all!
Sorrow
In the midst of joy.
Join with us,
A world must be lost. / Kill . . . them . . . all! / Lover.
|
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14. |
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|
When I was boxed and laid to rest beneath the lily field,
I didn’t know that there were those to whom the dead appealed.
The earthworms and bacteria have left their marks behind,
But if someone can love me still, I’m sure that I won’t mind.
It might be just my luck some weirdo will choose me for the one,
And dig me up each evening long enough to have his fun.
And now some drunken sailor has decided to get fresh,
In spite of my protruding bones and decomposing flesh.
I lie there, only watching, as I often did in life.
But to him my unresponsiveness makes me the perfect wife.
And it was just my luck some weirdo would choose me for the one.
He digs me up each evening long enough to have his fun.
Now all you ladies worried that your love will be untrue,
And all you men who want a girl who won’t care what you do,
Just take your cue from Faulkner(1), or from Poul and Passovoy (2),
And find some dear departed whose cadaver to enjoy.
Just find an isolated graveyard with carcasses to steal,
Though the stench may be disgusting quite enough to make you reel.
_________________
1. A Rose For Emil by William Faulkner (1892-1962)
There is also a Julia Ecklar song about it; same title, on Horsetamer’s Daughter.
2. Mary O’Meara: lyrics by Poul Anderson, tune adapted by Anne Passovoy.
|
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15. |
Black Flag (Annwn)
05:26
|
|||
|
And it’s whey hay where the roaches reign.
Can you swat what you can’t see?
With the Black Flag running in our veins,
We’ll invite ourselves to tea.
I’ve feasted well upon the dregs of food both both old and green.
A fortnight since I was an egg, and many’s the sight I’ve seen.
But the finest kitchen anywhere in which to keep a cockroach lair,
In trash cans full and cupboards bare, is Anne’s that’s never clean.
(Chorus)
Chorus: And it’s whey hay where the roaches reign.
Can you swat what you can’t see?
With the Black Flag running in our veins,
We’ll invite ourselves to tea.
With the houseflies dancing overhead,
In the putrid beef is where they bred.
And you’ll regret that ever you fed
At the board of Anne Bonney.
Now some will change their dinner plans when they see a rodent there.
And some distrust the crusted pans left lying everywhere.
But the staunchest stomach could not stand,
and sooner would eat salad canned
Than find within it, not a strand, but a mat of Anne’s red hair.
(Chorus)
Come as you are, and scurry by; there’s scads of stuff to steal.
We’ve seen fresh veggies mummify and immortal Spam congeal.
Come midge and maggot, mold and mouse,
We’ll stuff you full; it’s on the house.
Bring all your grubs and serve your spouse for a fun-filled family meal.
(Chorus)
It’s bread and butter ho, me hearties, strip the larder clean.
We’ll eat our fill of last night’s party’s foreign haute cuisine.
We’ll creep out with the morning sun and hide inside the hotdog bun.
And give our thanks when feeding’s done to Anne, the cockroach queen.
(Chorus)
|
||||
Bob Kanefsky Mountain View, California
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