Removing a Wart

I know that thinking out loud, rough drafts, and what-not are par for this blog, but it bothered me to leave the scuzz line in my last post just hanging there, so here's the fix. Improves the dramatic flow a bit, too:

I would like to clear up some confusion—
Rumors have arisen, here and there.
Goodness only knows
How a rumor grows—
Nonetheless, I'd like the clear the air.
Now, listen:

Me, I'm not Rambo.
Don't be fooled by all the buzz.
Me? I'm not Rambo.
Did you think—? Well, everybody does!
We've both got attitude;
We tend to strut;
We're never rude—
We simply kick butt.
But
Me—I'm not Rambo.
Just in case you thought I was.

Lyric © 2006 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

Macho Is As Macho Does

I'm trying to think how to work that subject line into the following, a parody of Me And My Shadow that infiltrated the noggin on the way home tonight (verse and chorus):

I would like to clear up some confusion--
Rumors have arisen, here and there.
Goodness only knows
How a rumor grows--
Nonetheless, I'd like the clear the air.
Now, listen:

Me, I'm not Rambo,
Even though we both hate scuzz.
Me--I'm not Rambo
(Heaven knows, there's been a lot of buzz).
We've both got attitude:
Although we strut,
We're never rude--
We simply kick butt;
But
Me? I'm not Rambo.
Just in case you thought I was.

Lyric © 2006 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

Yes, I know: the second line of the chorus needs work. But the basic idea is the goods, I think.

The Fatal Fascination of Taglines

I don't know whether the following was worth the effort, but part of the tagline popped into my head, so I followed through. Probably a mistake.

The tune is Richard Rodgers's soul-stirring but misguided Surrey With the Fringe on Top. Lots of dummy words in this one, which is presently the sketchiest of drafts:

Hicks and flakes step out with an iPod
Hooked on belt, or hung on a tripod.
Chances are, you might think the type odd--
But they're really not:

No one from Da Brat to The Bopper
Stands to rake in one little copper
From the songs they keep in the hopper,
'Cause the files are hot.

They hack through firewalls and jimmy e-locks
(The software goes for a pittance);
They'd probably manage to invade Fort Knox,
Despite that it says No Admittance.

You, who turn out songs for a living--
You might not feel quite so forgiving;
You might think they're due for a shivving
In a nice, soft spot.
Still, they're very, very sorry to infringe . . .
No, they're not.

Lyric © 2006 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

The end of the last line is particularly weak, but no fix has suggested itself at moment of going to press.

Sprucing It Up A Bit

Four hours on the road between Flavortown and home base allowed me to polish the parody of Cole Porter's I've Got You Under My Skin:

Ann Coulter
Gets under your skin:
She cold-cocks
Liberal piety;
The sacredest cows
Of modern society--
Like buzz words.
And media spin.

The Left Wing
Used to be in:
A sinister spirit suffused
Each editorial;
Our line was seductively slick
And faux professorial,
But, truth-wise,
Boy! was it thin.

When Coulter arose to expose the lies,
We did not know how to respond.
The thing that annoyed us most: she's not only wise,
But she's willowy, witty and blonde!

And you know that her fans
Just sit there and grin.
Gad! but it's maddening!
And just a bit saddening.
But the bell's been rung;
Simply bite your tongue
And thank God
She isn't a twin--
Or she'd reeeeeelly
Get under your skin!

Lyric © 2006 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

A vast improvement: the serpentine sinister spirit suffused coming on the brooding flatted la of the scale; the sparkle of seductively slick brightened by the sharped fa, followed by the descending melody for the harumphing faux professorial. I had to replace cant; only a conservative would be familiar with the word. The maddening/saddening lines are a better fit for the poignancy of Porter's repeated phrase. Lies and maddening also recall the original vowel sounds at that point; always a desideratum, to my mind. Now, I must do something about the scansion of just a bit saddening.

The following substitute for But the bell's been rung also popped into my head, but I don't know what to do with it (keep your suggestions to yourselves, please):

Just console yourself
That's she's on the shelf
Next to It,
By Elinor Glyn--
Who can also
Get under your skin.

The Eternal Tension

. . . between Art and Craft. Suppose a decent idea comes: I work it up while it's fresh, then check it against the sheet music. The error I most often find is that I've added pick-up syllables in places where the composer was silent. What to do? Re-work the line until it fits the music as written? Or keep the first expression of the thought as is, since it's probably funnier and more natural than anything written later in cold blood? Do I sacrifice everything, come what might, for the sake of having my say, or stay up for half the night to re-write and re-write, till I've written the humor away? As Wodehouse says, the whole thing is very moot.

Which brings us to today's little offering. The thought came along on Thursday afternoon, and the song itself kept me occupied Friday morning, while I was driving that stultifyingly boring stretch of I-95 that runs the length of Connecticut--all 111 miles of the damned thing. It's to the tune of Cole Porter's I've Got You Under My Skin, the picks-up to which I know like the back of my hand. Simply put, the middles of the lines don't have 'em: under my skin, deep in the heart of me, not to begin. Nevertheless, I could think of no way to avoid putting 'em into my lines. I justify this apparent sloppiness by telling myself that I've consciously done it. Does that make a difference, though? I dunno.

Now, the song:

Ann Coulter
Gets under your skin:
She cold-cocks
Liberal piety;
The sacredest cows
Of modern society--
Like buzz words.
And media spin.

The Left Wing
Used to be in:
Their journalist cronies would write
Each editorial;
Their line was deceptively slick
And faux professorial,
But truth-wise,
Boy! was it thin.

When Coulter arose to expose their cant,
They did not know how to respond;
And here's what annoyed 'em more than her partisan slant:
She was willowy, witty and blonde!

And you know that her fans
Just sit there and grin.
Somehow, it's criminal.
(Or is it subliminal?)
Well, the bell is rung;
Simply bite your tongue
And thank God
She isn't a twin--
Or she'd reeeeeelly
Get under your skin!

Lyric © 2006 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

Now, really: how can one edit out Gets in the second line, without destroying the whole song? The rule simply must be broken, this time.

OK, What About . . .

A new release for The Lady is a Tramp:

So when a straight stud hands her a line,
Does she decline?
She's ice--
No dice!

Lyric © 2006 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

Beats the old one, anyway. Given enough time--speaking in geological terms, of course--, we may eventually make a silk purse out this one.

Tramp, Tramp, Tramp

In accordance with SOP chez Petrikov, I looked up the sheet music to The Lady is a Tramp after writing my parody of it the other day. Looking it up ahead of time would have been cheating; sort of like referring to the box while doing a jigsaw puzzle (I refer, of course, to those damnable new-fangled cardboard puzzles with the picture on the front of the box, not the traditional wooden jigsaw puzzles packaged in plain brown wrappers).

The phrases of the A theme, it turns out, begin and end with a dotted rhythm, thus: Dah-DAH, d'DAH-dah; dah-DAH, d'dah-DAH. So it doesn't really fit a couple of Hart's original lines; for, if they were to be sung as written, they'd come out as I get t'hungry for dinner at eight and I don't l'crap games with barons and earls, with undue emphasis on get and don't. (Yeah, I know: not that anyone actually sings 'em that way in practice.)

Of course, this rhythmic nuance means that my line 6, Built like Mercedes, and I don't mean Benz, is not merely nonsensical, but clumsily nonsensical. Not to mention Go look up in line 3.

So let's try this:

She goes for fellas who go for her mind;
Has lots of boyfriends, but none are "inclined";
Look under "fag hag," and guess what you'll find?
No doubt, the lady's into camp.

She's one of Nature's improbable 10's;
Her bust eclipses Sophia Loren's;
But she and menfolk can only be frenz.
No doubt, the lady's into camp.

Yet think of how much money she saves,
Sloughing the knaves—
No bills
For Pills!

She's got potential, but only one amp.
No doubt, the lady's into camp.

Lyric © 2006 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

Now what's needed is to track Hart's alliteration with free, fresh and green grass in the release. And bills/Pills is not the right sort of rhyme; something more abrupt is wanted. And none are "inclined" is coy to the point of being Victorian; but I can't think yet how to use kind at this point. Hmmmmmmm.

Under the Influence

I never can remember who composed But Not for Me, and I'm too drunk at the moment to google it, but here's an off-the-cuff parody of it:

They're wearing thongs a lot,
You must agree.
They're showing all they've got,
As you can see.
I'm thrown for quite a loss,
Each time I come across
A bit of fanny floss,
Or two or three.

I guess a thong will do,
If you're the type;
And there's a bonus, too:
You needn't wipe.
But when it comes to sex,
I hope they break their necks,
'Cause there's no thong for me.

Lyric © 2006 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

The last line sucks. But I'll have to sober up before I can give my attention to it. Which means if ever.

"Fag Hag"--That's the Ticket!

An idea for a parody of The Lady Is a Tramp, by Richard Rodgers, crossed my mind last night. I'd cobbled together a complete chorus, but, in my ignorance of gay culture, I was doubtful about dragging John Tesh into the third line. Today, some friends of mine put me straight, as it were; and, moreover, suggested a better way to go. Not that I'm happy with the new opening lines; no, not at all. They want revision. But the kernel of a decent idea's in 'em, so they stay pro tem. Here's the song:

She goes for fellas who go for her mind;
Has lots of boyfriends, but none are "inclined";
Go look up "fag hag," and guess what you'll find?
No doubt the lady's into camp.

Her bust eclipses Sophia Loren's;
Built like Mercedes—and I don't mean Benz;
But she and menfolk can only be frenz.
No doubt the lady's into camp.

Yet think of how much money she saves,
Sloughing the knaves—
No bills
For Pills!

She's got potential, but only one amp.
No doubt, the lady's into camp.

Lyric © 2006 Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov

What sense can be made of line six? I assume, with no evidence except the recent proliferation of porn for Hispanics, that there's at least one beddable woman out there named Mercedes. I suppose that needs work, too.

And by sloughing the knaves, I mean to suggest discarding male suitors. Oh, well.

Come to think of it, perhaps I ought to flush this damned thing.

Time Warp

Not for the first time, a song idea has popped into my head that should have popped into my head twenty-eight years ago. If that's not eine lange Leitung, what is? Still, I ask my faithful readers to cast their minds back to 1978 and the Gershwin song (then just turning 50), I've Got a Crush on You:

I've got the Russian flu;
Fever's high;
Feelin' awful achy;
Like to die.

My nose and throat
Are substandard;
My small intestine
Is gerrymandered.

I've got dibs
On the loo!
(Pass the Kaopectate®,
P.D.Q.)

My gut has turned to pure mush,
Just because a Russian gave me the flu.

Lyric © 2006 (yep, 2006!) Nathaniel DesH. Petrikov