I can’t stop these songs writing themselves in my head. Passing them on to the world is a kind of exorcism. Here’s another in the same genre and to the same tune as before…
Solzhenitsyn was another;
He was friendly with my mother.
I don’t know if he kissed her
But he looks just like my sister
And a little bit like my brother.
No Russian authors were harmed in the writing of this song or the last one. Nor is it intended to allege, imply, suggest or hint that any person, extant or extinct, has behaved in any way that could be characterised by a reasonable person as dishonest or immoral.
I hope you’ve noticed that I haven’t been posting lately. Sloth and indiscipline have played a part, but mainly to blame is the creative urge – in particular my absorption in writing the sequel to ‘Bobby Shafter’. It is now complete! Subject to proof-reading of course.
Despite being absorbed in that authorly project, dim regions of my brain have been generating poetry. Those regions are like the ones that keep us breathing, pump our blood and move food through our digestive tracts; whatever we’re doing they just keep on going.
So what to do with this unconscious outpouring of creative… stuff? I have no choice. I have to share it.
What follows is to be sung to the tune of “Free, free beer for all the workers … when the Red Revolution comes!” or “Solidarity forever … the Union makes us free!”. Apart from the metrical scheme it’s much the same as “Mine eyes have seen the glory …” and “John Brown’s body …”. Please, please sing it, sing it loud, so my dim regions’ labours will be not in vain!
Dostoevsky was a writer;
Once I let him use my lighter.
He blew smoke in my eyes
And next day I realised
He’d stolen it – the blighter!