COMMENT ⊗   VALID 00040 PAGES
C REC  PAGE   DESCRIPTION
C00001 00001
C00004 00002
C00005 00003	National Brotherhood Week
C00007 00004	MLF Lullaby
C00009 00005	George Murphy
C00011 00006	The Folk Song Army
C00013 00007	Smut
C00016 00008	Send The Marines
C00018 00009	Pollution
C00020 00010	So Long, Mom
C00022 00011	Whatever became of Hubert?
C00024 00012	New Math
C00029 00013	Alma
C00032 00014	Who's Next?
C00034 00015	Wernher von Braun
C00036 00016	The Vatican Rag
C00038 00017	Poisoning Pigeons In The Park
C00041 00018	Bright College Days
C00043 00019	A Christmas Carol
C00045 00020	The Elements
C00048 00021	Oedipus Rex
C00050 00022	In Old Mexico
C00054 00023	Clementine
C00059 00024	It Makes a Fellow Proud to be a Soldier
C00063 00025	She's My Girl
C00065 00026	The Masochism Tango
C00068 00027	We Will All Go Together When We Go
C00072 00028	I Wanna Go Back to Dixie
C00074 00029	When You Are Old And Gray
C00076 00030	Irish Ballad
C00080 00031	The Hunting Song
C00082 00032	My Home Town
C00084 00033	The Wienerschnitzel Waltz
C00086 00034	When You Are Old And Gray
C00088 00035	I Hold Your Hand In Mine
C00089 00036	The Old Dope Peddler
C00090 00037	The Wild West
C00092 00038	Fight Fiercely Harvard
C00094 00039	Lobachevsky
C00099 00040	Be Prepared
C00101 ENDMK
C⊗;

This file was copied from LOTS.

National Brotherhood Week


Oh, the white folks hate the black folks,
And the black folks hate the white folks.
To hate all but the right folks
Is an old established rule.

But, during National Brotherhood Week, National Brotherhood Week,
Lena Horne and Sheriff Clarke are dancing cheek-to-cheek.
It's fun to eulogize the people you despise,
As long as you don't let 'em in your school.

Oh, the poor folks hate the rich folks,
And the rich folks hate the poor folks.
All of my folks hate all of your folks,
It's American as apple pie.

But, during National Brotherhood Week, National Brotherhood Week,
New Yorkers love the Puerto Ricans cause it's very chic.
Step up and shake the hand of someone you can't stand,
You can tolerate him if you try.

Oh, the Protestants hate the Catholics,
And the Catholics hate the Protestants,
And the Hindus hate the Moslems,
And everybody hates the Jews.

But, during National Brotherhood Week, National Brotherhood Week,
It's national everyone-smile-at-one-anotherhood week,
Be nice to people who are inferior to you,
It's only for a week so have no fear,
Be grateful that it doesn't last all year.

MLF Lullaby


Sleep, baby, sleep.  In peace may you slumber.
No danger lurks, your sleep to encumber.
We've got the missles, peace to determine,
And one of the fingers on the button will be German!

Why shouldn't they have nuclear warheads?
England says no, but they all are soreheads.
I say a bygone should be a bygone;
Let's make peace the way we did in Stanleyville and Saigon.

Once all the Germans were warlike and mean,
But that couldn't happen again.
We taught them a lesson in 1918,
And they've hardly bothered us since then!

So sleep well, my darling, the sandman can linger.
We know our buddies won't give us the finger.
Heil! - Hail! the Wehrmacht! 
-- I mean the Bundeswehr!
Hail to our loyal allies.

MLF will scare Brezhnev.
I hope he is half as scared as I!

George Murphy


Hollywood's often tried to mix
Show business with politics
From Helen Gehagen 
To Ronald Reagan?

But Mr. Murphy is the star
Who's done the best by far;

Oh, gee, it's great!
At last we've got a Senator who can really sing and dance!
We can't expect America to win against its foes
With no one in the Senate who can really tap his toes!

The movies that you've seen on your television screen
Show his legislative talents - heh, heh - at a glance.
Should Americans pick crops?  George says no,
'Cause no one but a Mexican would stoop so low,
And after all, even in Egypt, the Pharaohs
Had to import --  Hebrew braceros!

Think of all the musicals we have in store!
Imagine Broadway melody of 1984!
Yes now that he's a Senator, he's really got the chance
To give the public a song and dance.

The Folk Song Army


Oh, we are the folk song army,
Every one of us cares.
We all hate poverty, war, and injustice
Unlike the rest o' you squares!

There are innocuous folksongs, yeah,
But we regard 'em with scorn:
The folks who sing 'em have no social conscience --
Why, they don't even care if Jimmy cracked corn!

If you feel dissatisfaction,
Strum you frustrations away.
Some people may prefer action,
But give me a folk song, any old day.

The tune don't have to be clever,
And it don't matter if you put a couple extra syllables into a line.
It sounds more ethnic if it ain't good English,
And it don't even gotta rhyme -- excuse me, rhyne.

Remember the war against Franco --
That's the kind where each of us belongs.
Though he may have won all the battles, 
We had all the good songs.

So, join in the folk song army,
Guitars are the weapons we bring
To the fight against poverty, war, and injustice:
Ready, aim, sing!!

Smut


Smut!
Give me smut and nothing but!
A dirty novel I can't shut
If it's uncut
and unsubt...tle!

I've never quibbled,
If it was ribbled,
I would devour 
Where others merely nibbled.

As the judge remarked the day that he
Acquitted my Aunt Hortense:
To be smut it must be ut-terly
Without redeeming social importance.

Whore!!
The graphic pictures I adore!!
Indecent magazines galore!!
I like them more
If they're hard-core!!

Bring on the obscene movies -
Murals -
Postcards -
Neckties -
Samplers -
Stained-glass windows -
Tatooes -
Anything!
More, more, I'm still not satisfied!

Stories of tortures
Used by debauchers
Lurid, licentious, and vile -
Make me smile!

Novels that pander 
To my taste for candor
Give me a pleasure sublime.
Let's face it, I love slime!

All books can be indecent books,
Though recent books are bolder,
For filth, I'm glad to say, 
Is in the mind of the beholder:

When correctly viewed,
Everything is lewd.
I could tell you things about Peter Pan,
And the Wizard of Oz - there's a dirty old man!!

I thrill
To any book like Fanny Hill,
And I suppose I always will,
If it is swill,
And really fil...thy.

Who needs a hobby
Like tennis or philately?
I've got a hobby:
Rereading Lady Chatterly!

But now they're trying to take it all
Away from us unless we take
A stand and hand-in-hand we fight
For freedom of the press in other words,

Smut (I love it!)
Ah, the adventures of a slut!
Oh I'm a market they can't glut,
I don't know what 
Compares with smut, hip, hip, hooray!
(Let's hear it for the Supreme Court!)
Don't let them take it away!

Send The Marines


When someone makes a move
Of which we don't approve,
Who is it that always intervenes?
UN and OAS,
They have their place, I guess,
But first, send the Marines!

We'll send them all we've got,
John Wayne and Randolph Scott,
Remember those exciting fighting scenes?
To the shores of Tripoli,
But not to Missisipoli.
What do we do?  We send the Marines!

For might makes right and 'til they've seen the light,
They've got to be protected, all their rights respected,
Till somebody we like can be elected!

The members of the Corps
All hate the thought of war:
They'd rather kill them off by peaceful means.
Stop calling it aggression --
Ooooh we hate that expression!
We only want the world to know
That we support the status quo;
They love us everywhere we go, 
So when in doubt, send the Marines!

Pollution


If you visit American city,
You will will find it very pretty;
Just two things of which you must beware:
Don't drink the water and don't breathe the air!

Pollution, Pollution.
They've got smog and sewage and mud:
Turn on your tap and get hot-and-cold running crud.

See the halibuts and the sturgeons
Being wiped out by detergents. 
Fish gotta swim and birds gotta fly,
But they don't last long if they try.

Pollution, Pollution.
You can use the latest toothpaste,
And then rinse your mouth with industrial waste.

Just go out for a breath of air,
And you'll be ready for Medicare.
The city streets are really quite a thrill:
If the hoods don't get you, the monoxide will.

Pollution, Pollution.
Wear a gas mask and a veil;
Then you can breathe, long as you don't inhale.

Lots of things there that you can drink,
But stay away from the kitchen sink.
The breakfast garbage that you throw into the bay,
They drink at lunch in San Jose.

So go to the city, see the crazy people there;
Like lambs to the slaughter, 
They're drinking the water, 
And breathing the air!

So Long, Mom


So long, Mom! I'm off to drop the bomb, 
So don't wait up for me.
But while you swelter
Down there in your shelter,
You can see me
On your TV!

While we're attacking frontally, watch Brinkelly and Huntelly
Describing contrapuntally the cities we have lost!
No need for you to miss a minute of the agonizing holocaust (Yeah!)

Little Johnny Jones he was a U.S. pilot, 
And no shrinking violet was he!
He was mighty proud when World War III was declared;
He wasn't scared, nosiree!
And this is what he said on
His way to Armaggeddon:

So long Mom, I'm off to drop the bomb, 
So don't wait up for me.
But though I may roam,
I'll come back to my home
Although it may be
A pile of debris!

Remember, Mommy, I'm off to get a Commie,
So send me a salami and try to smile somehow.
I'll look for you when the war is over,
An hour and a half from now!

Whatever became of Hubert?


Whatever became of Hubert?  Has anyone heard a thing?
Once he shone on his own;
Now he sits home alone,
And waits for the phone to ring.

Once a fiery, liberal spirit,
Ah, but now when he speaks, he must clear it.
Second fiddle's a hard part I know,
When they don't even give you a bow!

"We must protest this treatment, Hubert,"
Says each newspaper reader.
As someone once remarked to Schubert,
"Take us to your leader." (Sorry about that!)

Whatever became of you, Hubert?  We miss you so tell us please:
Are you sad?  Are you cross?
Are you gathering moss,
While you wait for the boss to sneeze?

Does Lyndon, recalling when he was V.P.,
Say, "I'll do unto you like they did unto me!"
Do you dream about staging a coup?  Hubert what happened to you?

New Math


You can't take three from two; two is less than three, 
So you look at the four in the tens place.
Now that's really four tens, so you make it three tens,
Regroup, and you change a ten to ten ones, 
And you add them to the two and get twelve 
And you take away three that's nine. Is that clear?

Now instead of four in the tens place, you've got three 
'Cause you added one, that is to say, ten to the two,
But you can't take seven from three so you look in the hundreds place.
From the three you then use one to make ten ones,
And you know why four plus minus one plus ten is 
Fourteen minus one plus addition is commutative, right?,
And so you've got thirteen tens and you take away seven,
And that leaves five...well, six actually, 
But the idea is the important thing.

Now go back to the hundreds place,
You're left with two and you take away 
One from two and that leaves -- everybody get one?
Not bad for the first day!

Hooray for New Math, New-ew-ew Math,
It won't do you a bit of good to review math.
It's so simple, so very simple, 
That only a child can do it!

(Now that actually is not the answer that I had in mind,
Because the book that I got this problem out
of wants you to do it in base eight...but don't panic-
base eight is just like base ten, really...if you're
missing two fingers!  Shall we have a go at it? Hang on...)

You can't take three from two, two is less than three, so
You look at the four in the eights place.
Now that's really four eights, so you make it 
Three eights, regroup, and you change an eight to eight ones,
And you add them to the two and you get one-two base eight
Which is ten base ten and you take away three that's seven. OK?

Now instead of four in the eights place, you've got three, 
'Cause you added one, that is to say, eight, to the two,
But you can't take seven from three so you look at the sixty-fours.

("Sixty-four?  How did sixty-four get into it?"
I hear you cry.  Well, sixty-four is eight squared, don't
you see.  Well, you ask a silly question, you get a 
silly answer....)

From the three you then use one to make eight ones;
You add those ones to the three and you get one-three
Base eight, or in other words, in base ten, you have
Eleven and you take away seven and seven from eleven is four!

Now go back to the sixty-fours, you're left with two and
You take away one from two and that leaves -- 
No, let's not always see the same hands --
One, that's right.  Whoever got one can stay after
the show and clean the erasers.

Hooray for New Math, New-ew-ew Math,
It won't do you a bit of good to review math.
It's so simple, so very simple, 
That only a child can do it!

Come back tomorrow night -- we're gonna do...fractions!

Alma


The lovliest girl in Vienna
Was Alma the smartest as well.
Once you picked her up on your antenna,
You'd never be free of her spell.

Her lovers were many and varied,
From the day she began her Beguine.
There were three famous ones whom she married,
And God know how many between!

Alma, tell us;
All modern women are jealous.
Which of your magical wands
Got you Gustav and Walter and Franz?

The first one she married was Mahler,
Whose buddies all knew him as Gustav.
And each time he saw her he'd holler:
"Ach, that ist the Fraulein I must haff!"

Their marriage, however, was murder.
He'd scream to the heavens above:
"I'm writing 'Das Lied von der Erde',
Und she only vants to make love!"

Alma, tell us;
All modern women are jealous.
You should have a statue in bronze
For bagging Gustav and Walter and Franz.

While married to Gus she met Gropius,
And soon she was swinging with Walter.
Gus died and her teardrops were copious;
She cried all the way to the alter.

But he would work late at the Bauhaus,
And only came home now and then.
She said, "Was am I running, a chowhouse?
It's time to change partners again!!"

Alma, tell us;
All modern women are jealous.
Though you didn't use Ponds,
You got Gustav and Walter and Franz.

While married to Walt she'd met Werfel
And he, too, was caught in her net.
He married her but he was carefel,
'Cause Alma was no Bernadette.

And that is the story of Alma
Who knew how to receive and to give.
The body that reached her embalma
Was one that had known how to live!

Alma, tell us;
How can they help being jealous?
For ducks always envy the swans
Who get Gustav and Walter
-- You never did falter --
With Gustav and Walter and Franz!!

Who's Next?


First we got the bomb, and that was good,
'Cause we love peace and motherhood.
Then Russia got the bomb, but that's OK:
'Cause the balance of power's maintained that way.
Who's next?

France got the bomb, but don't you grieve,
'Cause they're on our side (I believe)
China got the bomb, but have no fears:
They can't wipe us out for at least five years.
Who's next?

Then Indonesia claimed that they
Were going to get one any day.
South Africa wants two - that's right!
One for the Black and one for the White.
Who's next?

Egypt's gonna get one too,
Just to use on you-know-who.
So...Israel's getting tense,
Wants one in self-defence.
"The Lord's our Shepherd," says the Psalm,
But, just in case...we'd better get a bomb!
Who's next?

Luxembourg is next to go,
And, who knows, maybe Monaco!
We'll try to stay serene and calm
When Alabama gets the bomb!
Who's next, who's next, who's next?
Who's next??

Wernher von Braun


Gather round while I sing you of Wernher von Braun
A man whose allegiance
Is ruled by expedience.
Call him a Nazi, he won't even frown:
"Nazi, schmazi," says Wernher von Braun.

Don't say that he's hypocritical;
Say rather that he's apolitical.
"Once the rockets are up, who cares where they come down?
That's not my department," says Wernher von Braun.

Some have harsh words for this man of renown,
But some think our attitude
Should be one of gratitude.
Like the widows and cripples in old Londontown
Who owe their large pensions to Wernher von Braun.

You, too, may be a big hero,
Once you've learned to count backwards to zero.
"In German or English I know how to count down,
Und I'm learning Chinese," says Wernher von Braun.

The Vatican Rag


First you get down on your knees,
Fiddle with your rosaries,
Bow your head with great respect, and
Genuflect! Genuflect! Genuflect!
You can do what steps you want if
You have cleared them with the Pontiff--
Everybody say his own
Kyrie-eleison
Doin' the VATICAN RAG!

Get in line in that processional,
Step into that small confessional.
There the guy who's got religion'll
Tell you if your sin's original.
If it is, try playin' it safer--
Drink the wine and chew the wafer.
Two-Four-Six-Eight,
Time to transubstantiate!

So get down upon your knees,
Fiddle with your rosaries,
Bow your head with great respect, and
Genuflect! Genuflect! Genuflect!
Make a cross on your abdomen--
When in Rome, do like a Roman . . .
Ave Maria,
Gee it's good to see ya
Gettin' ecstatic an'
Sorta dramatic an'
Doin' the Vatican Rag!!

Poisoning Pigeons In The Park


Spring is here, spring is here,
Life is skittles and life is beer.
I think the lovliest time of the year 
Is the spring, I do, don't you?, 'course you do.
But there's one thing that makes spring complete for me,
And makes every Sunday a treat for me:

All the world seems in tune on a spring afternoon
When we're poisoning pigeons in the park!
Every Sunday you'll see my sweetheart and me
As we poison the pigeons in the park.

When they see us coming, the birdies all try and hide,
But they still go for peanuts when coated with cyan-hide.
The sun's shining bright; everything seems all right
When we're poisoning pigeons in the park, la-la
La-la-la-da-da doo-dee-dee doo-doo-doo

We've gained notoriety,
And caused much anxiety
In the Audubon Society
With our games.

They call it impiety,
And lack of propriety,
And boy, the variety
Of unpleasant names!

But, it's not against any religion
To want to dispose of a pigeon!

So, if Sunday you're free, why don't you come with me
And we'll poison the pigeons in the park.
And maybe we'll do in a squirrel or two
While we're poisoning the pigeons in the park.

We'll murder them all amid laughter and merriment,
Except for the few we take home to experiment...
My pulse will be quickenin' with each drop of strychinine
We feed to a pigeon -
It just takes a smidgen -
To poison a pigeon in the park!

Bright College Days


Bright college days,
Oh, carefree days that fly:
To thee we sing
With our glasses raised on high!

Let's drink a toast 
As each of us recalls
Ivy-covered professors
In ivy-covered halls.

Turn on the spigot,
Pour the beer and swig it,
And gaude amo sigit a tour.

Here's to parties we tossed,
To games that we lost:
We shall claim that we won them some day.
To the girls, young and sweet,
To the spacious back seat
Of our roommate's beat-up Chevrolet.

To the beer and benzedrine,
To the way that the Dean
Tried so hard to be pals with us all.
To excuses we fibbed,
To the papers we cribbed
From the genius who lived down the hall.

To the tables down at Morrie's
(Wherever that may be),
Let us drink a toast to all we love the best.
We will sleep through all the lectures,
And cheat on the exams,
And we'll pass, and before God and with the rest.

Oh, soon we'll be out
Amid the cold world's strife;
Soon we'll be sliding down the razor blade of life.

Ready?

But as we go our sordid separate ways,
We shall ne'er forget thee,
Thou golden college days.

Hearts full of youth!
Hearts full of truth!
Six parts Gin to one part Vermouth!

A Christmas Carol


Christmastime is here, by golly!
Disapproval would be folly.
Deck the halls with hunks of holly;
Fill the cup and don't say "when!"

Kill the turkeys, ducks, and chickens;
Mix the punch; drag out the Dickens.
Even thought the prospect sickens,
Brother, here we go again!

On Christmas Day, you can't get sore,
Your fellow man you must adore.
There's time to rob him all the more
The other three hundred and sixty-four!

Relations sparing no expense'll
Send some useless old utensil
Or a matching pen and pencil:
"Just the thing I need -- how nice."

It doesn't matter how sincere it 
Is, nor how heartfelt the spirit.
Sentiment will not endear it;
What's important is ... the price!

Hark!  The Herald Tribune sings,
Advertising wondrous things!

God rest ye merry merchants,
May ye make the yuletide pay!

Angels we have heard on high
Tell us to go out and buy!

So, let the raucous sleighbells jingle;
Hail our dear old friend Kris Kringle,
Driving his reindeer across the sky:
Don't stand underneath when they fly by!!

The Elements


There's Antimony, Arsenic, Aluminum, Selenium and
	Hydrogen and Oxygen and Nitrogen and Rhenium and
	Nickel, Neodymium, Neptunium, Germanium and
	Iron, Americium, Ruthenium, Uranium,

	Europium, Zirconium, Lutetium, Vanadium and
	Lantanum and Osmium and Astatine and Radium and
	Gold, Protactinium and Indium and Gallium and
	Iodine and Thorium and Thulium and Thallium.

There's Yttrium, Ytterbium, Actinium, Rubidium and
	Boron, Gadolinium, Niobium, Iridium and
	Strontium and Silicon and Silver and Samarium and
	Bismuth, Bromine, Lithium, Beryllium and Barium.

There's Holmium and Helium and Hafnium and Erbium and
	Phosphorus and Francium and Fluorine and Terbium and
	Manganese and Mercury, Molybdenum, Magnesium,
	Dysprosium and Scandium and Cerium and Cesium and

	Lead, Praseodymium and Platinum, Plutonium,
	Palladium, Promethium, Potassium, Polonium and
	Tantalum, Technetium, Titanium, Tellurium and
	Cadmium and Calcium and Chromium and Curium.

There's Sulfur, Californium and Fermium, Berkelium,
   also Mendelevium, Einsteinium, Nobelium and
	Argon, Krypton, Neon, Radon, Xenon, Zinc and Rhodium, and
	Chlorine, Carbon, Cobalt, Copper, Tungsten, Tin and Sodium.

These are the only ones of which the news has come to Harvard,
And there may be many others, but they haven't been discovered.

Oedipus Rex


From the Bible to the popular song,
There's one theme that we find right along:
Of all ideals we hail as good,
The most sublime is Motherhood.

There was a man, though, who it seems,
Once carried this ideal to extremes.
He loved his mother and she loved him,
And yet his story is rather grim.

There once lived a man named Oedipus Rex
-- You may have heard about his odd complex --
His name appears in Freud's index
'Cause he loved his mother.

His rivals used to say, quite a bit,
That, as a monarch, he was most unfit.
But, still, in all, they had to admit
That he loved his mother.

Yes, he loved his mother 
Like no other:
His daughter was his sister,
And his son was his brother.

One thing on which you can depend is:
He sure knew who a boy's best friend is!

When he found what he had done,
He tore his eyes out, one by one.
A tragic end to a loyal son 
Who loved his mother.

So be sweet and kind to mother,
Now and then have a chat.
Buy her candy or some flowers or a brand new hat.
But maybe you had better let it go at that!

For you may find yourself with a quite complex complex,
And you might end up like Oedipus
-- I'd rather marry a duck-billed platypus --
Than end up like old Oedipus Rex!

In Old Mexico


When it's fiesta time in Guadalajjjjjara,
Then I long to be back, once again, in old Mexico.
Where we lived for today, never giving a thought to tomorra.
To the strumming of guitars
In a hundred grubby bars
I would whisper "Te amo!"

The mariachis would serenade,
And they would not shut up till they were paid.
We ate, we drank, and we were merry,
And we got typhoid and dysentery.

But, best of all, we went to the Plaza de Toros;
Now, whenever I start feeling morose,
I revive by recalling that scene.
And names like Del Monte Don Meguina Manaleje:
If I live to a hundred and eightay,
I shall never forget what they mean.

For there is surely nothing more beautiful in this world
Than the sight of a lone man facing singlehandedly
A half a ton of angry pot roast.

Out came the matador 
Who must have been potted or
Slightly insane, but who looked rather bored.
Then the picadors, of course,
Each one on his horse.
I shouted "Ole!" every time one was gored.

I cheered at the bandolieros display,
As they stuck the bull in their own clever way.
For I hadn't had so much fun since the day
My brother's dog Rover
Got run over.

Rover was killed by a Pontiac,
And it was done with such grace and artistry
That the witnesses awarded the driver both ears and the tail.
-- But I digress.

The moment had come,
I swallowed my gum,
We knew there'd be blood on the sand pretty soon.
The crowd held its breath,
Hoping that death
Would brighten an otherwise dull afternoon.

At last, the matador did what we wanted him to.
He raised his sword, and his aim was true.
In that moment of truth, I suddenly knew
-- That someone had stolen my wallet.

Now it's fiesta time in Akron, Ohhhhhio.
But it's back to old Guadalajara I'm longing to go.
Far away from the strikes of the AF of L and CIO,
How I wish I could get back 
To the land of the wetback
And forget the Alamo:
In old Mexico!  Ole!!

Clementine


I should like to consider the folk song and expound briefly on a theory
I have held for some time to the effect that the reason most folk songs
are so atrocious is that they were written by the people.  If profes-
sional song-writers had written them instead, things might have turned
out considerably differently.  For example, consider the old favorite,
with which I am sure you are all familiar, Clementine. You know,

	"In a cavern, in a canyon, da-da-da da-da da-da"

a song with no recognizable merit whatsoever, and imagine what might have
happened if, for example, Cole Porter had tried writing the song.  The
first verse might come out like this:

       "In a cavern, in a canyon, excavating for the mine,
	Far away from the boom-boom-boom of the city,
	She was so pretty,
	What a pity,
	Clementine!
	Oh, Clementine, can't you tell from the howls of me,
	This love of mine, calls to you from the bowels of me.
	Are you discerning the returning of this churning, burning,
	Yearning for you oo oo oo oo ah ah ah ah"

Well, supposing, at this point, that Mozart, or one of that crowd, had
tried writing a verse: the next one might have come out at a baritone
aria from an Italian opera somewhat along these lines:

       "Er aligera, er comi un feri, e suesius numero nine
	Ere to-o-o-opses a sens aco-o-o-opses
	A sarandare per Clementino, si,
	Per Clementino, si, per Clemetino,
	Sandare, per Clementino, sandare per Clemetine.
	Clementine, ah Clementine, ah Cle-e-e-ementine, ah,
	Ere topses sens acopses sandare per Clemetina
	Ere topses sens acopses sandare per Clemetina
	Chessia cura Clementina,
	Chessia cura Clementinaca, per Clementinaca,
	Per Clementina na na na na na na na.

Well, supposing at this rather dramatic juncture in the narrative, one of
our modern "cool school" of composers had tried writing a verse, the next
one might have come out like this:

       "Drove those ducklings to the wire (yebrack doodle a doo doo eh eh, eh)
	Every morning like nine a.m. (oopah, doo-doo-doo doo-doo doobily-da)
	Got a-hung up on a splinter,
	Got a-hung up on a splinter, (kloogi-ma huh, huh da-da-da da-da)
	Fell into the foamy brine;
	Dig that crazy Clementine! (ennh!)

To end on a happy note, one can always count on Gilbert and Sullivan for a
rousing finale, full of words and music, and signifying nothing.

       "That I missed her depressed her
	Young sister named Esther;
	This mister to pester she tried.
	Now a pestering sister's
	A festering blister,
	You'd best-a resist her, say I

	The mister resisted,
	The sister persisted,
	I kissed her, all loyalty slipped.
	When she said I could have her,
	Her sister's cadaver
	Must surely have turned in its crypt.
	(Yes, yes, yes, yeeees)

	But I love she and she loves me,
	And raptured are the both of we,
	Yes, I love she and she loves I,
	And will through all eternitie.

It Makes a Fellow Proud to be a Soldier


The heart of every man in our platoon must swell with pride
For the nation's youth, the cream of which is marching at his side,
For the fascinating rules and regulations that we share,
And the quaint and curious costumes that we're called upon to wear.

Now, Al joined up to do his part, defending you and me.
He wants to fight and bleed and kill and die for Liberty.
With the hell of war he's come to grips,
Policing up the filter tips.
It makes a fellow proud to be a soldier!

When Pete was only in the seventh grade, he stabbed a cop.
He's real R.A. material, and he was glad to swap
His switchblade and his old zip gun
For a bayonet and a new M-1.
It makes a fellow proud to be a soldier!

After Johnny got through Basic Training, he
Was a soldier through and through; when he was done,
Its effects were so well-rooted,
That the next day he saluted
A Good Humor man, an usher, and a nun.

Now, Fred's an intellectual; brings a book to every meal.
He likes the deep philosophers, like Norman Vincent Peale.
He thinks the Army's just the thing,
Because he finds it broadening.
It makes a fellow proud to be a soldier!

Now, Ed flunked out of second grade, and never finished school.
He doesn't know a shelter hasp from an entrenching tool.
But he's going to be a big success:
He heads his class ot OCS.
It makes a fellow proud to be a soldier!

Our old mess sergeant's taste-buds have been shot off in the war.
But, his savory collations add to our esprit de corps.
To think of all the marvelous ways
They're using plastics nowadays.
It makes a fellow proud to be a soldier!

Our Lieutenant is the up-and-coming type;
Played with soldiers as a boy you just can bet.
It is written in the stars
He will get his Captain's bars,
But he hasn't got enough boxtops yet!

Our Captain has a handicap to cope with, sad to tell:
He's from Georgia, and he doesn't speak the language very well.
He used to be, so rumor has, 
The Dean of Men at Alcatraz.
It makes a fellow proud to be,
What, as a kid, I vowed to be,
What luck to be allowed to be a soldier!  At ease!!

She's My Girl


Sharks gotta swim, and bats gotta fly;
I gotta love one woman till I die.
To Ed or Dick or Bob, she may be just a slob,
But, to me, well, she's my gal, she's my gal.

In winter, the bedroom is one large ice cube,
And she squeezes the toothpaste from the middle of the tube.
Her hairs in the sink have driven me to drink,
But, oh, well, what the hell, she's my gal,
And I love her.

The girl that I lament for,
The girl my money's spent for,
The girl my back is bent for, 
The girl I owe the rent for,
The girl I gave up Lent for, 
Is the girl that Heaven meant for me.

And though for breakfast she serves coffee that tastes like sham-POO,
I come home for dinner and get peanut-butter stew;
Or, if I'm in luck, it's broiled hockey puck,
But, oh, well, she's my gal, she's my gal,
And I love her.

The Masochism Tango


I ache for the touch of your lips, dear,
But much more for the touch of your whips, dear:
You can raise welts
Like nobody elts,
As we dance to the Masochism Tango.

Let our love be a flame, not an ember.
Say it's me that you want to dismember.
Blacken my eyes,
Set fire to my tie as
We dance to the Masochism Tango.

At your command,
Before you here I stand,
My heart is in my hand -- yecch!
It's here that I must be.

My heart entreats,
Just hear those savage beats,
And go put on your cleats,
And come and trample me.

Your heart is hard as stone or mahogany,
That's why I'm in such exquisite agony.
My soul is on fire,
It's aflame with desire,
Which is why I perspire when we tango.

You caught my nose in your left castanet, love,
I can feel the pain yet, love,
Every time I hear drums.
And I envy the rose that you held in your teeth, love,
With the thorns underneath, love,
Sticking into your gums.

Your eyes cast a spell thet bewitches;
The last time I needed twenty stitches
To sew up the gash
That you made with your lash
As we danced to the Masochism Tango.

Bash in my brain,
And make me scream with pain,
Then kick me once again,
And say we'll never part.

I know too well
I'm underneath your spell,
So, darling, if you smell
Something burning it's my heart.
-- Oops, excuse me! --

Take your cigarette from its holder,
And burn your initials in my shoulder.
Fracture my spine, 
And swear that your mine,
As we dance to the Masochism Tango.

We Will All Go Together When We Go


When you attend a funeral,
It is sad to think that sooner or l- ater
Those you love will do the same for you.
And you may have thought it tragic,
Not to mention other adjec- tives
To think of all the weeping they will do,
But don't you worry,

No more ashes, no more sackcloth,
And an armband made of black cloth,
Will someday never more adorn a sleeve.
For if the bomb that drops on you
Gets your friends and neighbors, too,
There'll be nobody left behind to grieve.

And we will all go together when we go,
What a comforting fact that is to know.
Universal bereavement
An inspiring achievement,
Yes, we all will go together when we go.

We will all go together when we go,
All suffused with an incandescent glow.
No one will have the endurance 
To collect on his insurance,
Lloyd's of London will be loaded when they go.

Oh, we will all fry together when we fry,
We'll be French-Fried potatoes, by and by.
There will be no more misery 
When the world is our rotisserie.
Yes, we all will fry together when we fry.

Down by the old mill strum,
There'll be a storm before the calm.

And we will all bake together when we bake,
There'll be nobody present at the wake.
With complete participation
In that grand incineration,
Nearly three billion hunks of well-done steak.

Oh, we will all char together when we char,
And let there be no moaning of the bar.
Just sing out a tedium
When you see that ICBM,
And the party will be come as you are.

Oh, we will all burn together when we burn,
There'll be no need to stand and wait your turn.
When it's time for the fallout,
And St. Peter calls us all out,
We'll just drop our agendas and adjourn.

You will all go directly to your respective Valhallas.
Go directly, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollahs.

And we will all go together when we go,
Every Hottentot and every Eskimo.
When the air becomes Uraneous,
We will all go simultaneous,
Yes, we'll all go together
When we all go together,
Yes, we all will go together when we go.

I Wanna Go Back to Dixie


I wanna go back to Dixie,
Take me back to dear old Dixie.
That's the only li'l ol' place for li'l ol' me.
Good times there are not forgotton,
Whuppin' slaves and sellin' cotton,
And waiting for the Robert E. Lee (it was never there on time).

The land of the Swanee,
Where pellagra makes you scrawny,
And the jazz men and the tear gas smell just fine.
I really am a-fixin'
To go back where there's no mixin',
Down below that Mason-Dixon line!

Oh, poll tax,
How I love ya, how I love ya,
My dear old poll tax.

So, follow me to Alabammy,
Back to the arms of my dear old Mammy.
Her cooking's lousy and her hands are clammy,
But, what the hell, it's home.

For paradise the Southland is my nominee.
Just give me a hamhock and a grit of hominy.

I wanna start relaxin'
Down in Birmin'ham or Jackson
Where we're havin' fun, why no one intervenes!
I wanna talk with Southern gentlemen,
And put my white sheet on again:
I ain't seen one good lynchin' in years!

The land of the boll weevil,
Where the laws are Medieval,
Is callin' me to come and never more roam.

Be it ever so decadent,
There's no place like home!!

When You Are Old And Gray


While I still appreciate you,
Let's find love while we may,
Because I know I'll hate you
When you are old and grey.

Say you love me, here and now,
I'll make the most of that.
Say you love and trust me,
For I know you'll disgust me,
When you're old and getting fat.

An awful debility 
Of lessened utility, 
And a loss of mobility,
Is a strong possibility.

In all probability,
I'll lose my virility,
And you your fertility,
And desirability.

And this liability
Toward social sterility
Will lead to hostility
And a sense of futility.

So let's act with agility
While we still have facility,
For we'll soon reach senility,
And lose the ability.

Your teeth will start to go, dear,
Your waist will start to spread.
In twenty years or so, dear,
I'll wish that you were dead.

I'll never love you then, though,
The way I do today.
So, please remember, 
When I leave in December,
I told you so in May.

Irish Ballad


About a maid I sing a song,
Sing rikkiti-tikkiti-tin;
About a maid I sing a song,
Who did not have her family long.
Not only did she do them wrong,
She did every one of them in, them in...
She did every one of them in.

One morning in a fit of pique,
Sing rikkiti-tikkiti-tin;
One morning in a fit of pique,
She drowned her father in the creek.
The water tasted bad for a week,
And we had to make due with gin, with gin...
We had to make due with gin.

Her mother she could never stand,
Sing rikkiti-tikkiti-tin;
Her mother she could never stand,
And so a cyanide stew she planned.
The mother died with a spoon in her hand,
And her face in a hideous grin, a grin...
Her face in a hideous grin.

She set her sister's hair on fire,
Sing rikkiti-tikkiti-tin;
She set her sister's hair on fire,
And as the smoke and flames rose higher,
Danced around the funeral pyre,
Playing a violin, 'olin...
Playing a violin.

She weighted her brother down with stones,
Rikkiti-tikkiti-tin;
She weighted her brother down with stones,
And sent him off to Davy Jones.
And all they ever found were some bones,
And occasional pieces of skin, of skin...
Occasional pieces of skin.

One day when she had nothing to do,
Sing rikkiti-tikkiti-tin;
One day when she had nothing to do,
She cut her baby brother in two,
And served him up as an Irish stew,
And invited the neighbors in, 'bors in...
Invited the neighbors in!

And when at last the police came by,
Sing rikkiti-tikkiti-tin;
And when at last the police came by,
Her little pranks she did not deny,
For to do so, she would have had to lie,
And lying she knew was a sin, a sin...
Lying she knew was a sin.

My tragic tale I'll not prolong,
Sing rikkiti-tikkiti-tin;
My tragic tale I'll not prolong,
And if you do not enjoy my song,
You've yourselves to blame if it's too long,
You should never have let me begin, begin...
You should never have let me begin.

The Hunting Song


I always will remember,
'Twas a year ago December
I went out to hunt some deer
On a morning bright and clear.

I went and shot the maximum the game laws would allow:
Two game wardens, seven hunters, and a cow.

I was in no mood to trifle;
I got down my trusty rifle
And went out to stalk my prey:
What a haul I made that day!

I tied them to my fender and I drove them home somehow:
Two game wardens, seven hunters, and a cow.

The law was very firm it
Took away my permit,
The worst punishment I ever endured.

It turned out there was a reason:
Cows were out of season,
And one of the hunters wasn't insured!

People ask me how I do it
And I say, "There's nothing to it:
You just stand there looking cute,
And when something moves, you shoot."

And there are ten stuffed heads in my trophy room right now:
Two game wardens...seven hunters...and a purebred Guernsey cow!

My Home Town


I really have a yen
To go back once again,
Back to the place where no one wears a frown.
To see once more those super special just plain folks 
In my home town.

No fellow could ignore
That little girl next door;
She sure looked sweet in her first evening gown.
Now there's a charge for what she used to give for free
In my home town.

I remember Dan!
The druggist on the corner:
He was never mean or orner-y, he was swell.
He killed his mother-in-law and ground her up real well.
And sprinkled just a bit, 
Over each banana split.

The guy who taught us math,
Who never took a bath
Acquired a certain measure of reknown.
And after school he'd sell the most amazing pictures
In my home town.

That fellow was no fool
Who taught our Sunday School,
And neither was our kindly Parson Brown.
-- Shall I?  No, I think I'd better not --
In my home town.

I remember Sam!
He was the village idiot,
And though it was a pity, it was so.
He liked to burn down houses just to watch the glow.
And nothing could be done because he was the mayor's son.

The guy who took a knife
And monogrammed his wife,
Then dropped her in the pond to watch her drown.
Yes, all the people there are really just plain folks
In my home town!

The Wienerschnitzel Waltz


I remember the night
I held you so tight
As we danced to the Wienerschnitzel Waltz.
The music was gay and the setting was Viennese,
Your hair wore some roses--or perhaps they were peonies,
I was blind to your obvious faults
As we danced 'cross the scene
To the strains of the Wien-
Erschnitzel Waltz.

Oh I drank some champagne from your shoe.
La-la-la!
I was drunk by the time I got through.
La-la-la!
For I didn't know as I drained that cup,
It had taken two bottles to fill the thing up!

It was I who stepped on your dress.
La-la-la!
The skirts all came off, I confess.
La-la-la!
Revealing for all of the others to see,
Just what it was that endeared you to me!!

I remember the night
I held you so tight
As we danced to the Wienerschnitzel Waltz.
Your lips were like wine, if you'll pardon the simile,
The music was gay, and quite Rudolph Primily,
I drank wine, you drank chocolate malts!
And we both turned quite green
To the strains of the Wien-
Erschnitzel Waltz.

When You Are Old And Gray


While I still appreciate you,
Let's find love while we may,
Because I know I'll hate you
When you are old and grey.

Say you love me, here and now,
I'll make the most of that.
Say you love and trust me,
For I know you'll disgust me,
When you're old and getting fat.

An awful debility 
Of lessened utility, 
And a loss of mobility,
Is a strong possibility.

In all probability,
I'll lose my virility,
And you your fertility,
And desirability.

And this liability
Toward social sterility
Will lead to hostility
And a sense of futility.

So let's act with agility
While we still have facility,
For we'll soon reach senility,
And lose the ability.

Your teeth will start to go, dear,
Your waist will start to spread.
In twenty years or so, dear,
I'll wish that you were dead.

I'll never love you then, though,
The way I do today.
So, please remember, 
When I leave in December,
I told you so in May.

I Hold Your Hand In Mine


I hold you hand in mine, dear,
I press it to my lips.
I take a healthy bite from
Your dainty fingertips.

My joy would be complete, love,
If you were only here.
But still I keep your hand as 
A precious souvenir.

The night you died I cut it off,
I really don't know why.
For now each time I kiss it,
I get bloodstains on my tie.

I'm sorry now I killed you,
For our love was something fine,
And till they come to get me,
I shall hold your hand in mine.

The Old Dope Peddler


When the shades of night are falling,
Comes a fellow everyone knows:
It's the old dope peddler,
Spreading joy wherever he goes.

Every evening you will find him
Around our neighborhood:
It's the old dope peddler
Doing well by doing good.

He gives the kids free samples
Because he knows full well
That today's young, innocent faces
Will be tomorrow's clientele.

Here's a cure for all your troubles;
Here's an end to all distress:
It's the old dope peddler
With his powdered happiness.

The Wild West


Along the trail you'll find me lopin'
ere the spaces are wide open
In the land of the old AEC. (yee-hoo!)
Where the scenery's attractive
And the air is radioactive,
Oh the wild west is where I wanna be.

'Mid the sagebrush and the cactus,
I'll watch the fellas practice 
Droppin' bombs through the clean desert breeze. (aah-hoo!)
I'll have on my sombrero,
And of course I'll wear a pair of
Levi's over my lead DVD's.

I will leave the cities' rush,
Leave the fancy and the plush,
Leave the snow and leave the slush,
And the crowds.

I will seek the desert's hush 
Where the scenery is lush, 
How I long to see the mush-room clouds!

'Mid the yuccas and the thistles,
I'll watch the guided missles
While the old FBI watches me. (yee-hoo!)
Yes, I'll soon make my appearance,
Soon as I can get my clearance
'Cause the wild west is where I wanna be!

Fight Fiercely Harvard


Fight fiercely, Harvard, fight, fight, fight!
Demonstrate to them our skill!
Albeit they posess the might,
Nonetheless we have the will!

Oh, we shall celebrate our victory:
We shall invite the whole team up for tea. (How jolly!)
Hurl that spheroid down the field and
Fight, fight, fight!

Fight fiercely, Harvard, fight, fight, fight!
Impress them with our prowess, do!
Oh, fellows, do not let the crimson down:
Be of stout heart and true!

Come on, champs, fight for Harvard, glorious name
For it'd be peachy if we win the game (oh, goody!)
Let's try not to injure them, 
But fight, fight, fight (let's not be rough, though!)
Fight, fight, fight (and do fight fiercely!)
Fight, figh-igh-ight, fight!!

Lobachevsky


Who made me the genius I am today
-- The mathematician who others all quote --
Who was the professor who made that way
-- The greatest that ever got chalk on his coat?

One man deserves the credit,
One man deserves the blame,
And Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his name -- ay!
Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachev-

I will never forget the day I first meet the
great Lobachevsky.  In one word he told me
secret of success in mathematics: plagiarize!

Plagiarize!
Let no one else's work evade your eyes!
Remember why the good Lord made your eyes,
So don't shade your eyes, but
Plagiarize, plagiarize, plagiarize!!
(Only be sure, always, to call it, please, "research"!)

And ever since I meet this man
My life is not the same,
And Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his name -- ay!
Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachev-

I am never forget the day I am given
first original paper to write:  it was
on "Analytic and Algebraic Topology
of Local Euclidian Transformations
of Infinitely Differentiable Riemannian Manifolds."
Borzha moi!  Please, I know, for nothing!
But I think of great Lobachevsky
and I get idea -- ah hah!

I have a friend in Minsk,
Who has a friend in Binsk,
Whose friend in Omsk
Has friend in Tomsk,
Whose friend in Okmolinsk,
Has friend in Alexandrovsk,
Whose friend in Petropavlovsk,
Whose friend somehow
Is solving now
The problem in Jepopatrovsk.

And when his work is done,
Aha! Begins the fun!
From Jepopatrovsk to Petropavlovsk,
By way of the east, and over Ozist,
To Alexandrovsk, to Okmolinsk,
To Tomsk, to Omsk, to Binsk, to Minsk,
To me the news will run!
Yes, to me the news will run!

And then I write
By morning, night, 
And afternoon,
And pretty soon,
My name in Jepopatrovsk is cursed:
When he finds out, I publish first!

And who made me a big success
And brought me wealth and fame?
Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his mane -- ay!
Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachev-

I am never forget the day my first
book is published.  Every chapter
I stole from somewhere else.
Index I copied from old Vladivostok 
telephone directory.  This book -
this book was sensational!  Pravda -
well, Pravda said, "zhil bil kerodica
daf minio mankha zhiwai:" it stinks!
But Izvestia, Izvestia said,
"Ja, iuku da sansari jokhber schkom:"
it stinks!  Metro Goldwyn Moskvar
buys movie rights for six million
roubles, changing title to
"The Eternal Triangle," with Doris 
Day playing part of Hypotenuse!

And who deserves the credit,
And who deserves the blame?
Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his name -- Ay!

Be Prepared


Be prepared:  that's the Boy Scouts' marching song;
Be prepared as through life you march along:
Be prepared to hold your liquor pretty well;
Don't write naughty words on walls if you can't spell!

Be prepared to hide that pack of cigarettes;
Don't make book if you cannot cover bets.
Keep that pot well hidden where you're sure
That it will not be found,
And be careful not to turn on
When the Scoutmaster's around,
For he only will insist that it be shared!
Be prepared!

Be prepared:  that's the Boy Scouts' solemn creed;
Be prepared, and be clean in word and deed:
Don't solicit for your sister, that's not nice,
Unless you get a good percentage of her price!

Be prepared, and be careful not to do
Your good deeds, when there's no one watching you
If you're looking for adventure of a new and different kind,
And you come across a Girl Scout who is similarly inclined,
Don't be nervous, don't be flustered, don't be scared:
Be prepared!!