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FilkFile 2

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· 4 Mar 2023

What, already??? The second compilation of filksongs collected from the FILK Echo and provided for download via the auspices of Kay Shapero, moderator of same. Publication date, June 1990. All copyrights belong to the writers.

FILKfile appears at irregular intervals of a month or more, depending on how many songs appear on the echo.

BANNED FROM ARGO -- THE NEXT GENERATION

lyrics by Bob and Brenda Daverin
(tune: "Banned From Argo")

After 74 long years the Argo people changed their minds,
And said they'd let us visit their fair planet one more time.
They figured we're a brand new crew, so how could it go wrong.
But something did, and that is why we're singing you this song.

And we're banned from Argo for all time,
Banned from Argo, though our visit was sublime.
We had a lovely shore leave there for just a week or four,
But they won't let us dock there anymore.

Our gallant, Gallic captain with his head so mirror-clean,
Stepped in an Argo bar just to observe the local scene.
A drunk Ferengi used the captain's head to check his looks,
And woke up in the hospital, his hands replaced with hooks.

Our handsome, suave First Officer likes anything in skirts,
And when he's playing poker, his opponents lose their shirts.
He founds himself at table with a highlander from Earth,
And now he swears he knows how women feel when giving birth.

Our sensitive Ship's Counselor walked by the Argo Jail,
And was hit by the emotions held by each and every male.
The warden called us up and said, "You've got to beam her out!
She's taking on my convicts, and she's wearing each one out!"

Our lovely, widowed doctor found herself a big surprise,
A man just like her husband, only doubled in one size.
She introduced him to her son, and then was shocked to find
That having sex with Mama was no longer on his mind.

Our blind Chief Engineer's experience was rather slim.
Not knowing what girls looked like was a sticking point with him.
He fixed his VISOR so that he could see their proper shape,
And ended up in court, arraigned on 30 counts of rape.

Our green-skinned android helmsman felt the need to build a mate,
So when a ship leave came about, he'd always have a date.
They found a cheap motel that had sex movies as the fare,
And when the rescue crews arrived, the hotel wasn't there.

Our good chief of security's a Klingon with some class,
He led a pack of Romulans in a Klingon Catholic Mass,
Or so he told the shore patrol when they came to claim the dead.
He said they'd moved a bit too slow when told to bow their heads.

Our youthful acting ensign fended off his mother's friend,
And sought to give his shore leave a far more auspicious end.
He made a human daisy chain like some had never seen,
It took two turns through hyperspace and generated steam.

The hostess of Ten-Forward lounge has been a mystery,
Like how she met the Captain, also just how old is she.
She found a dear old friend who called himself the Wandering Jew,
And they reminisced about the time they spent in Kathmandu.

COMPUTERWOCKY

by David Dyer-Bennet

Twas Digital, and the binary bits
Did shift and rotate in the core.
So flimsy were the circuit boards
That the mainframe out-wore.

Beware the swapping disk, my son.
The seconds lost! The systems crashed!
Beware the 12-bit word, and shun
Remotely entered batch.

He took the joystick in his hand,
Long time the flashing circle sought.
Then rested he by the PDP
And programmed it -- he thought!

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The swapping disk, with blinking lights,
Came whiffling through the I/O queue,
And complemented bytes!

01, 10! 01, 10! And through and through!
His flashing line went forth and back.
He left it dead, its dump unread,
And thought to hit the sack.

And hast thou bombed the swapping disk?
Oh, come to my arms, my beamish boy!
Oh frabjous day! I overlay!
He chortled in his joy.

Twas Digital, and the binary bits
Did shift and rotate in the core.
So flimsy were the circuit boards
That the mainframe out-wore.

[The "flashing circle", "joystick", and "flashing line" refer-
ences refer to a primitive computer game we ran on the PDP-8/L
systems at Carleton in the very early 70's. It's the only case I
know of a graphics-based game designed for a storage-tube dis-
play.]

DRAGON'S BREATH II

by Charlie Kellner

The dragon sleeps within the earth
His dreams will never die
They seek to trap him in his cave
His soul is in the sky
With shields upraised the armored knights
Advance into his lair
A breath is drawn; a sword descends
The dragon is not there

I LEFT BY BART

by Charlie Kellner
(tune: I Left My Heart in San Francisco)

I left by Bart in San Francisco
Beneath the bay it calls to me
To be where little cable cars
Lay waiting for repairs
The morning smog may clog the air
They don't care
They cry "Unfair!" in San Francisco
About the pay they can't agree
If I return to you, San Francisco
I'll drive my car and ride for free

words copyright Charlie Kellner, 1990

ONE FOR THE 'PUTERS

words by Susie Lee
tune: The Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly"

Poor old lady
she swallowed a pi
(I don't know why she swallowed a pi,
poor old lady, I think she'll die)

Poor old lady
she swallowed a mouse
and the wire is still hanging out of her mouth.
(it makes her jump and grump and grouse)
she swallowed the mouse to catch the pi,
..poor old lady, I think she'll die.

Poor old lady
she swallowed the rest
of the WHOLE computer!
(wow, what a test! you can hear the hard drive in her chest)
She swallowed the 'puter to catch the mouse,
she swallowed the mouse to catch the pi,
poor old lady, I think she'll die.

Poor old lady
she swallowed a SysOp
(a nice young man who made her hiccough)
He used to be a computer repairman
and now they two have made it to heaven.

words copyright Susie Lee, 1990

RENFESTIE

words by Jane Rogge Fredericksen.
(tune: Wild Rover)

I've been a RenFestie for many a year
And I've spent all my time pulling hay from my beer
But now I'm returning for still more abuse
With my boots far too tight, and my tights far too loose

(chorus)
And it's no, nay, never
No, nay, never, no more
Will I ever be normal?
No, never, no more

I went to auditions to show them my stuff
And was told the artistic director was tough
I asked for a contract - He answered me, "Nay!
We've got junior high kids who will work for no pay!"

chorus....

So I pulled from my pocket my tinwhistle bright
And I loudly played "Greensleeves" 'til he cried with fright
"All right, you'll have staging. Just please let me be!
Play off by the privies in area C."

chorus....

So now I'm a Festie, confessin' I lack
Complete understanding of why I go back
With the drunks and the mashers and whackos who do....
And the audience even gets kinda wierd too!

end with chorus....

words copyright Jane Rogge Fredericksen, 1990

This makes a good singalong. If you are one of the variant bunches that
sings Wild Rover with four sharp claps after the first line of the chorus, you
may choose to add the (traditional Minnesota Renaissance Festival) phrase
"Right up your kilt!" in place of the clapping, varying it with "We want a
raise!" if the song is being sung ON site.

SUPER-FRAGILE...

words by Susie Lee
tune: "Supercalifragilisticexpialadocious" from the movie, "Mary Poppins"

Super-fragile-calculistic-extra-expeditious!
It's the science of which (has to have been)
quite fictitious
If you write a tome of this
you might be held suspicious!
Super-fragile-calculistic-extra-expiditious!
don't power it with D.C. comics,
only A.C. Clarke..
and dashes of some Bradbury and Simak
(for a lark!)
you pour it down an Aldiss-ian abyss just for me,
while I go into retrogression, jabb'ring in my tree!
(OH! lum di-deedle-eedle, lum deedle,la!)
((do that again if you really want TA!))
Super-fragile-calculistic-extra-expiditious!
this described a fellow who
a lady thought delicious
but then after she ate him,she
was sick into her dishes!
Super-fragile-calculistic-extra-expiditious!

Now Stephen King and Edward Bloch, they
might have been amused.
For Bram Stoker and Annie Rice
our lady had perused,
SO never did she cook her meat
but ate him fully raw,
and by the time she had got sick
she'd made it to his ____ (Awww!)
(Oh, lum di, deedle-eedle, lum deedle,la!)
((take it from here if ya want any maw!))
(((Oh, wellll)))...Super-fragile-calculistic's really a
comp-u-ter
And when it gets too fractious we would really like to
shoot 'er.
But it would cost us much too much to get ourselves a-noth-er
So whenever we're mad at it, we just call it "..a mother!"

Now Super-fisted calisthenic
is a swartzennegger,
and super-ma-te-ri-a-lis-tics,
of their husbands, beggar
but super stainless-steel-rats,
they'll never worry 'bout it
cause whether there's a law or not,
they'll all be sure to flout it!

words copyright Susie Lee, 1990

SWINGING ON STARS

words by Beth Friedman, Sharon Kahn, Elise Krueger and Cally Soukup

Chorus:
Would you like to swing on a star,
Carry moonbeams home in a jar,
And be better off than you are,
Or would you rather be a ...

... Fan?

A Fan in an animal with books in its lair,
It won't wash its face or comb its hair.
It knows every story Heinlein ever wrote,
From his laundry lists to his grocery notes,
So if you think that you really are a slan
Then you are probably a Fan.

CHORUS: ...Pro?

A Pro is an animal who likes to tell tales
About his advances and his sales.
He goes to conventions like the others do,
And every now and then he writes a book or two.
So if you think you can do without the dough,
You could grow up to be a Pro.

CHORUS: ...Agent?

An Agent is an animal who gets ten percent,
Barely enough to pay the rent.
She'll hold your hand in all those contract fights,
Then lose your residuals and foreign rights.

So if you think you've got the stamina to shlep
You could become an author's rep.

CHORUS: ...Editor?

An Editor is an animal who feeds on your prose,
Anything you like, she says, "It goes."
She cuts four chapters as a last resort,
And then gets angry 'cause the book's too short.
So if you like making others' stories beditor
You could grow up to be an Editor.

CHORUS: ...Artist?

An Artist is an animal who won't read the book,
But knows just exactly how it looks!
He draws the cutest unicorns you ever saw,
And puts your hero in a chainmail bra.
So if you're one of those disgusting dragon lovers
You could grow up to do the covers.

CHORUS: ...Critic?

A Critic is an animal.

CHORUS: Reader?

A Reader is an animal who isn't a Fan,
But reads all the Skiffy that he can.
He buys his books from the major chains,
And reads L. Ron Hubbard 'til it rots his brains.
So if you're just an esthetic bottom-feeder
You might grow up to be a Reader.

CHORUS:
So would you like to swing on a star,
Carry moonbeams home in a jar,
And be better off than you are?
You could be swinging on a star!

words copyright Beth Friedman, Sharon Kahn, Elise Krueger and
Cally Soukup, 1990

A New Chorus

words by David Emerson

So to heck with dragons and elves
All the fiction's not on the shelves
You can make life up for yourselves
You could be better than you are
You could be swingin' on a star!

words copyright David Emerson, 1990

And More Verses
words by Elise Krueger

A zinefan is an animal who's crazy for zines
And antiquated mimeo machines
She still does ditto, and you needn't laugh:
Her last perzine was on a hectograph!
And so if zinefandom's really what you wish,
I guess you'd better pub your ish!

A drobe is an animal who isn't afraid
To show us the stuff of which she's* made
She's got a costume that's unique and new:
Three large sequins and some Elmer's glue....
So if you like going out without a robe
You might grow up to be a drobe!

words copyright Elise Krueger, 1990

*two notes are in order here. First, I don't intend to offend anyone. Certainly I don't intend to offend costume fans; I revived the Masquerade at Minicon in the face of much opposition, and have worked hard to allow costume fans the opportunity to display and enjoy their craft. The song is designed to lovingly insult everyone; if your group is left out, we can fix that!
Second, I'm looking for a masculine gender verse variant here.
Any ideas? I like to be able to sing both.

THE MAVEN

by Charlie Kellner

Once upon a weekend weary, while I pondered, beat and bleary,

Over many a faintly printed hexadecimal dump of core -
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some Source user chatting, chatting of some Mavenlore.
"Just a power glitch," I muttered, "printing out an underscore -
Just a glitch and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember that old Teletype ASR,
And the paper tape dispenser left its chad upon the floor.
Eagerly I thought, "Tomorrow, maybe I will go and borrow
From my friend an Apple micro - micro with a monitor -
So that I can chat at leisure, and then throw away my paper -
Lying all across the floor."

And the repetitious tapping which had nearly caught me napping
Woke me - and convinced me that it could not be an underscore;
Appearances can be deceiving, so I sat there, still believing:
"My terminal must be receiving more express mail from the Source
-
That's it - my terminal's receiving new express mail from the
Source;
Posted mail and nothing more."

But my curiosity grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
I stood up and crossed the room to see what waited there in
store.
Sticking from the terminal were three inches or so of paper;
Carefully my trembling hand tore off the scrap, and then I swore
-
"What is this?" I cried in anger - here I threw it to the floor;
Blankness there and nothing more.

Deep into its workings peering, long I stood there wondering,
fearing,
What could cause the thing to stutter, dropping twenty lines or
more?
But the ribbon was unbroken, and the "HERE IS" gave no token,
I thought the Teletype was broken, so I typed the number "4"!
This I typed, and then the modem echoed back the number "4" -
Merely this and nothing more.

Back then to my work returning, with my temper slowly burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is just another RESET message;
With my luck, there's probably expensive data to restore!" -
As it chattered, still I sat there, trying to complete my chore.
"'Tis the Source and nothing
more."

Such a simple program, really - just to fill one K of memory
With the Fibonacci series, but when it reached 144,
It had failed to set the high bit - Suddenly I thought I had it!
But just as I found the bug, my train of thought derailed once
more
As the Teletype's loud bell rang, then it sat just like before -
Rang, and sat, and nothing more.

Suddenly I couldn't stand it - Just as if someone had planned it,
Now the paper, like a bandit, rolled its way across the floor!
As I put it back, I spied two words: "CHAT TCX122" -
Which I knew must be the Maven, chatting from the Eastern shore.
Presently the terminal received and printed one word more -
Quoth the Maven, "#4?"

Such a message I was having difficulty understanding,
For his letters little meaning - little relevancy bore;
Though I must admit believing that no living human being
Ever could remember seeing evidence of Mavenlore -
Tell me now, what kind of Maven of the saintly days of yore
Could have written "#4?"

But the Maven, waiting for me to reply, transmitted only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he ventured; silently the Teletype purred -
Till I scarcely more than murmured: "Stars and garters, what a
bore!"
Whereupon the terminal abruptly started with a roar;
Then it typed out "#4?!"

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so tersely spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what we have here could not be a line
error.
Failure to communicate, perhaps - it's late and getting later -
But I've never seen a greater unsolved mystery to explore."
Then I knew I'd never rest until I solved his semaphore...
"Who am I, the Prisoner?"

But the Maven didn't answer; no more data did he transfer,
So I wheeled my Herman Miller office chairair across the floor;
Then, upon the plastic sinking, I betook myself to linking
Logic unto logic, thinking what this ominous bard of yore -
What this unknown, unseen, unsung, unrepentant bard of yore
Meant in typing "#4?!"

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the dour and cryptic Maven now whose words I puzzled o'er;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the seat back's plastic lining that the lamp light flouresced
o'er,
But whose flattened plastic lining with the lamp flourescing o'er
Shall compress, ah, little more!

All at once my thoughts grew clearer - as if looking in a mirror,
Now at last I understood where I had sent the number 4!
"Look," I typed, "I was just testing - did you think that I was
jesting?
Why was it so interesting that I typed the number 4?
Did you think that you were chatting with some foolish
sophomore?"
Quoth the Maven, "...#4?"

"Maven!" said I, "Great defender! Venerable comprehender!
Whether you began this chat, or were a victim of error,
Mystified, and yet undaunted, by this quandary confronted -"
(Could my terminal be haunted?) "Tell me truly, I implore -
Can you understand my message? - tell me, tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Maven, "#4!"

"Maven!" said I, "Great pretender! Ancient Jewish moneylender!
By the Source that now connects us - by the holy Oath you swore -
Tell me in your obscure wisdom if, within your distant modem,
You receive my words unbroken by backspace or underscore -
Tell me why my Teletype prints nothing but the number 4!"
Quoth the Maven, "#4?"

"Be that word our sign of parting, bard or fiend!" I typed,
upstarting
"Get back to your aimless chatter and obnoxious Mavenlore!
Leave no token of your intent - send no message that you repent!
Leave my terminal quiescent! Quit the chat hereinbefore!
Type control-P (or escape), and quit this chat forevermore!"
Quote the Maven, "#4..."

And the Maven, notwithstanding, still is chatting, still is
chatting
Over my misunderstanding of his cryptic "#4?";
And I calmly pull the cover and remove a certain lever
From the 33ASR, which I never shall restore;
And a certain ASCII number that lies broken on the floor
Shall be printed - nevermore!

THE NEW WAVE

by Charlie Kellner

The guru sits
high atop a hill
and says to the world
"Here comes the new wave!"

The businessman sits
sipping his martini
contemplating stock futures
and beach front property

The old-timer sits
secure in his mansion
and refuses to move

And here we are
in our outrageous T-shirts
and sandals
surfing

THE PHOENIX CYCLE

by Charlie Kellner

Born of light in a darker age
When men howled at the moon in fear
Nourished by a spark of hope
In the ashes of despair

You awoke as the sun's last ray
Shattered the egg that protected you
Rising high on a plume of smoke
You spread your wings and flew

Fly, Phoenix!
Into the dark of night
The world has need of your magic
Wonderful and bright

----

As you grew in your power
Took to the sky like a shooting star
You lighted the path men walked on
They saw the glow from afar

Then they looked up in wonder
Fear of the night for a moment gone
They thought you might be a dragon
Until they heard your song

Fly, Phoenix!
Borne on the winds of change
The world has need of your magic
Wonderful and strange

----

As the dawning sun rose high
You sang with a passion they never knew
The light that had been gone for so long
Cast its love on you

Rising into the clear blue sky
Seeking the light that gave you birth
You touched the fire of the heavens
And brought it back to Earth

Fly, Phoenix!
Where no one else would dare
The world has need of your magic
Wonderful and rare

----

Men didn't know what you gave them
Some day you knew they would use it well
And tales would be told of the fire bird
That touched the sky and fell

With the last rays of evening
You knew that your work on Earth was done
You followed those last rays skyward
To the greater light beyond

Fly, Phoenix!
Into the endless night
All worlds have need of your magic
Beautiful and bright

THE WAYWARD WORD

by Charlie Kellner
(tune: "The Way We Were")

Memories... in the Lo-res screen I find
Missing 16-color memories of the wayward word
Scattered pixels of the files we left behind
Files we saved with Apple Writer of the wayward word
Could it be that it was all in ASCII then
Or has DOS rewritten every line?
If we had the file to edit all again
Tell me - would we... could we?
Memories... can be powered up and yet
What's refreshing to remember, they simply lose, then forget
So it's the hardware we'll try to repair
Whenever we encounter the wayward word
The wayward word

(apologies to Barbra Streisand and Marvin Hammlisch)

WELL, ALMOST NO ROOM...

verses by Kay Shapero
choruses by Lee Gold
(tune: either "Temperance Union" or "Banks of Sicily")

Dad cycled the airlock, and Mom pulled it to,
Then looked at her hand which was covered with goo.
So that's where my chewing gum disappeared to!
We're off to the Moon for the weekend.

While making a sandwich my brother has found
That untethered honey jars wander around.
The galley is now a nice warm sticky brown...
We're off to the Moon for the weekend.

My sister revised the computer and we
Do not seem to be where they want us to be.
Two shuttles just missed us. Whoops, no make that three!
We're off to the Moon for the weekend.

To add to the noise, Baby's started to cry.
I don't like the look Mommy has in her eye.
And Daddy is swearing that next time they'll buy
A Spaceship with No Room for Children!

Choruses:
for "Banks of Sicily"

So fare you well, green grass and gravity,
We won't be back til Sunday night.
We left kitty home, 'cause there's no room to swing her
We're off to the Moon for the weekend.

for "Temperance Union"

Hurray, hurray for Zero-G
For Zero-G, for Zero-G
Hurray, hurray for Zero-G
We're off to the Moon for the weekend!

This was sort of as a comment on "A Spaceship Has No Room for Children", originally intended to be to the same tune, but it was SO ose I couldn't stand to listen to it often enough to learn same...

I usually sing this to a modified version of Banks of Sicily.