etfb

To the tune of We All Stand Together by Paul McCartney:

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!

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.

O Caprica

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!

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:

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...

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. stellar_muddle is responsible for the fact that it's a filk of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah...

Uncle Llewen

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

All Creatures That On Earth Do Dwell

TTTO All People That On Earth Do Dwell, unsurprisingly

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.

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.

Known World

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"

The Good Old Days

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

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:

He Moved Through The Fair

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."

Hmmm... maybe that's why they don't sing that version. It's turned into The Blacksmith. Dang!

I've decided that Thursday on my LJ will be Filkday henceforth (and Wednesday will be Lazyweb day, and Tuesday will be LOL[thing] day, and I'll work out the others later) but I'm still getting over the Lurgi, so here's something I originally wrote on my old blog, fLog, which has been off the air for ages now.

---

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.

( Terry Bisson Meets An Old Cowpoke )

Too utterly knackered to blog right now, so I'll just remind you: if you're in Canberra next Sunday, come along to Brunch at the Bestiary! Show up from 10.30, bring a plate of something brunchtacular to share, and if you want to make a habit of it, subscribe to canberrunch or contact me via FaceCrack (I'm Eric TF Bat - the only one). Here's the bit of silliness I attached to the event notice on FaceBook:

"Once more unto the brunch, dear friends, once more,
Or fill the tum up with our toasted bread!
At night there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest diet and abstinence;
But when the rays of dawn glare in our eyes,
Then imitate the action of Nigella:
Scramble the eggs, dice up the fruit.
Disguise burnt edges with well-flavour'd marg;
Then load the plate with edible objects..."


As an added (possible) bonus, we may have some very special guests along. I was chatting with Jon the Prevert yesterday, and he mentioned that the lovely Margie is getting married next Saturday morning, and there are a bunch of people in town for the wedding, many of whom were hoping to have something to do on Sunday morning. I let him know the deal, so we may see the likes of him and the blonder half of the madrigalis gestalt entity and possibly even one Ms Jen, late of Old Blighty! That'd be lovely, because I haven't seen that lot in metric yonks.

Oh, and basal_surge: the reason I was chatting with Jon will be of interest to you. Remember those crepe-paper chinese etching wossnames you left us? Jon expressed delight at your idea of turning those into a hot air balloon, so provided he doesn't mind having the Elder Daughter of DOOOOM along as a spectator, he will be taking possession of the pieces when he pops along to brunch. Photos will be forthcoming in time.

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.


The Riled Rover
To the tune of... oh, you can work it out.

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!

Regarding that meme that's going around again, here are my answers:

All three, camping, cash, chicken, either according to how I'm feeling, either depending on availability, everyone, Ginninderra Creek, morning, never, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, not quite, not since I was young, shower, whichever side is further from the door, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes and yes...

But not in that order.

I remember from my youth that the received wisdom about a change of government was that all the government departments always had big name changes -- they were merged, eradicated, rearranged and recreated as the recent former opposition flexed its muscles. But I don't recall anything like that happening this time. So, to save me actually doing some research, can anyone tell me:

• Has the Rudd government rearranged the various departments much since they got in?
• Did the spanky new Howard government do anything like that back in 1996?
• What about state governments?
• Given that no opposition party ever likes the way their former overlords run things, how come this sort of thing isn't happening with alarming frequency and vehemence?
• Are they waiting until after the budget so they can slash and burn while everyone is dazed and confused?

His educational career began interestingly enough in agricultural school, where he majored in animal husbandry, until they caught him at it one day. Whereupon he switched to the field of medicine in which field he also won renown as the inventor of gargling. Which prior to that time had been practiced only furtively by a remote tribe in the Andes who passed the secret down from father to son as part of their oral tradition. He soon became a specialist, specializing in diseases of the rich. He was therefore able to retire at an early age.

I always describe vegetarianism as one of the "diseases of the rich". That's really just a fancy way of pointing out that it's a luxury: when you're poor, you can't pick and choose, so you eat what you can and try to survive. When you're rich -- and all of us are in Australia, unless we've been found guilty of unpatriotic swarthiness and sentenced to life in the outback -- you can be fussy about what you eat, which leads us to eating disorders, Tetsuya's and vegetarianism, depending on the choices you make.

Environmentalism is another disease of the rich. This is why China and India do not appear to give a flying epworth about the amount of pollution they're spewing across the oceans. They're trying to feed their people right now; there's no sense fussing about our children's children when our children are starving.

(This is not to say they're right and we're wrong. I'll even go so far as to say that they, and everyone else with a head so far in the sand as to think climate change is an ignorable irrelevance, are criminally and idiotically wrong. But I can at least understand their motivations.)

So when Sir Paul McCartney talks about people converting en masse to vegetarianism to save the environment, I have to wonder if he knows how he sounds. Given sufficient land turned over to the relative inefficiencies of plant growing, I'm sure it would be possible for some small proportion of the world to follow his advice. But all of it? All of us? Given that, acre for acre, meat is a much more efficient producer of protein than any plants? Never mind the methane and the clear-felling of Brazilian forests and all the rest: if you want to feed calories to human beings, meat gets the job done more efficiently than plants.

However... there are a bunch of adaptations that could be made to farming methods, I'm fairly certain, if animals were no longer farmed at all. A lot of the plants that are grown are turned into feed for meat beasts. Returning that land to productive use as human-food-growing acreage would change the figures somewhat. And the health benefits would be pretty much immediate, provided everyone got access to balanced nutritional diets.

And if you assume that the majority of the human race will continue to starve slowly to death, then you can factor them out completely, and the numbers shift again. Maybe it would work. I don't know.

But in this week of pie-in-the-sky speculation, this one makes the others look tame. Nobody is going to convert the world to veganism in the next couple of hundred years, unless there's some very specific kind of disaster. Ultimately, Sir Paul just sounds like a crackpot for suggesting it.

Still, as long as he's busy talking, he's not doing duets with Michael Jackson over the piano, so let him talk.

As I mentioned back during the Fiat Lux effort, it's possible to sing the Agincourt Carol to the tune of the Banana Boat Song, a fact I originally learned from bar_barra, I believe -- but somehow I never got around to trying it myself.  But I was out on a long walk with the BatPup today, and she wanted songs, and she's very insistent that they must be new songs, so I dredged what I could from memory.  Later at home, I found that the full version makes the Boy Wonder giggle uproariously, which is just about the best sound in the world.  So if you fancy putting on your best Harry Belafonte and joining in, here are the properly adjusted lyrics:

The Bananacourt Carol

Our king went forth to Normandy (Deo gratias Anglia)
With grace and might of chivalry (Deo gratias Anglia)
There God for him wrought marv'lously (Deo gratias Anglia)
Wherefore England may call, and cry (Deo gratias Anglia)

Deo! Deo!
Deo gratias Anglia
Deo! Deo!
Redde pro victoria.

He set a siege, forsooth to say (Deo gratias Anglia)
To Harfleur town with royal array (Deo gratias Anglia)
That town he won, and made a fray (Deo gratias Anglia)
That France shall rue till Domesday (Deo gratias Anglia)

Then went our king, with all his host (Deo gratias Anglia)
Through France for all the French's boast (Deo gratias Anglia)
He spared no dread of least, nor most (Deo gratias Anglia)
Till came he to Agincourt coast (Deo gratias Anglia)

And then for sooth that knight comely (Deo gratias Anglia)
In Agincourt field he fought manly (Deo gratias Anglia)
Through grace of God the most mighty (Deo gratias Anglia)
He had both field, and victory (Deo gratias Anglia)

There dukes, and earls, lord and baron (Deo gratias Anglia)
Were taken, slain, and that well soon (Deo gratias Anglia)
And some were led in to London (Deo gratias Anglia)
With joy, and mirth, and great renown (Deo gratias Anglia)

Now gracious God he save our king (Deo gratias Anglia)
His people, all his well willing (Deo gratias Anglia)
Give him good life, and good ending (Deo gratias Anglia)
That we with mirth may safely sing (Deo gratias Anglia)

This is a song I composed many many years ago for The Known Words 2 about the old-old-old Festival site.  I've updated it with some site-specific verses, and I expect it will grow further...

The Nasty Song

THE FAIRHOLME PARK YEARS

The Rowany Festival comes once a year
    Dust, mud, sunburn and plague
We've barely recovered and once more it's here
    I can't wait to get there again
    I can't wait to get there again

Ten light-years of highway, packed up to the gills...
Surviving on caffeine and hayfever pills...

The autocrat panics and worries and frets...
And copes with the local cops' regular threats...

The privies with lanterns gone black from the heat...
And splashes of thigh-burning lime on the seat...

The waterhole filled with obese ugly men...
Resounding with pained, icy screams now and then...

The government caught us, so now we set sail...
For the "excellent drainage" of Camp Silverdale...

THE SILVERDALE YEARS

The "excellent drainage" cannot be denied
    Grass, mud, girl guides and rain
Let's watch Alfar's camp-bed go past on the tide
    I can't wait to get there again
    I can't wait to get there again

There's actual toilets, but don't shout hooray...
They'll only take ten or so people a day...

The locals are bogans, they all love our cars...
No Beemers or Mercs will escape without scars...

The old farts are grumpy: this site is too flat...
No ti-tree to trip you, what's fun about that?

The contract's exclusive - till Scout Jamboree...
Will Crossroads be better? Let's try it and see...

THE CROSSROADS YEARS

The Co-op's creating a village on site
    Dust, hills, guild halls and pain
No river; no rainfall; so something's not right!
    I can't wait to get there again
    I can't wait to get there again

Your armour and underwear fill up with dust...
Well look on the bright side - at least you won't rust...

The portaloos stink and they're blocked half the time...
I'm almost nostalgic for pit-privs with lime...

Your money's been spent on that very nice hall...
Don't lean on it too hard, you'll go through the wall...

The council won't let us have fire or flame...
But Webers and Maglites just don't seem the same...

Five long years of asthma and fire bans and dust...
This new site at Glenworth is nicer, we trust...

THE GLENWORTH VALLEY YEAR(S?)

Stay tuned...

Ha! I didn't even know I had a theme song, and now here it is! And you can hear it if you have something set up to handle streaming RealMedia (hint: not RealPlayer).

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.

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.

It Never Rains But It Pours

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)

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.

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”

Crossposted from fLog.

deense pointed me to The Last Saskatchewan Pirate by the Arrogant Worms, and it's been in my head non-stop ever since. So I figured it was ripe for filking. I hereby present:

The Last Saskatchewan Herald

Well, I used to be a newbie, had a lot to fill my days,
A-cooking and a-costuming and archery displays,
But one September morning as I sat amid the crowd,
A double-peer espied me and she told me, "Gosh, you're loud".
A voice like I'd been blessed with was a useful tool
To let it stay unutilised, I'd surely be a fool!
I ought to see if anyone could fit me in a role
Confucius say, no man can dig himself out of a hole!

Then I thought, who gives a damn if there are tender ears around.
I'm gonna be a herald and make loud, obnoxious sounds!

'Cause it's an oh-yay, oy-vey, mispronounce a name,
Lose your registration and never take the blame
And it's an oh hey, no way, every man look out,
When you see the golden trumpets and you hear the mighty shout.

Well I learned the way to run a court, and let my voice be heard
Occasion'ly the king would talk, but really that's absurd
The heralds are the royal voice, all eyes are shining onto
And kings are gone in half a year, so we do what we want to.
A superduke politely tried to register a name,
We gave him books in Greek and Dutch and said, "Just play the game"
Fill out your forms in triplicate, be sure it's fully checked,
It shouldn't take us more than half a decade to reject.

Well, Blazon is our language, it's a form of mangled French,
You'd think it was invented to impress a comely wench.
But listen up, I'll tell you all the reason why it's used:
It's 'cause it makes it easier to keep you all confused!
A herald's staff, a tabard green, and nerds for company
We sit around inventing rules to thwart the royalty.
Your favourite charge is disallowed, by Laurel Queen's decree;
If you wanna get your coat of arms, you gotta get by me!

Well the herald life's appealing but it's also pretty hard.
You have to watch the fights and write the winner on a card.
And when you call a Gaelic name to combat for the round,
You need to gargle gravel first, to get the proper sound.
Now winter is upon us and the tourney season's done,
A herald runs the risk of doing stuff that isn't fun:
Be sure to keep your head down when Laurel goes berserk,
Or else she'll put you on her staff to drown in paperwork!