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Words and music copyright ©2003 by Blake Hodgetts
A songwriting friend told me that he thought he would stop writing songs, since it seemed (according to a graph he showed me) that he was writing fewer and fewer songs each year .
Hm, I said.
Well, I've been penning filksongs for a jolly year or two,
But lately what I've written has been far between and few.
I can't just sing the same old stuff: it's wearing kind of thin.
I guess it's time to throw this towel in.
Looks like I'm done writin' filksongs, so put me out to stud
On second thought don't bother, 'cause now I'm just a dud
I once was knockin' targets down, but now I'm shootin' blanks.
I won't be filking anymore: no thanks.
Looks like I'm done writin' filksongs, my muse has left for sure.
She's sayin, "Who's that chucklehead keeps knockin' at my door?"
No flash of inspiration, no spark within my soul:
I've plucked the final cherry from my bowl
Where once I turned the spigot on and quickly brimmed the cup,
Now I get just a dribble and can scarcely fill it up.
I'm working much too had for what was once like breathin' air:
I reach inside my mind and nothing's there.
Looks like I'm done writin' filksongs: my brain has called it quits
It's all full up with zeroes, not...that other kind of bits.
Can't even write a sentence, let alone another verse
And my ly-rics' scan-sion's get-ting much worse.
Looks like I'm done writin' filksongs: I've nothing left to say.
I've written techie, ose and trekkie, fantasy, and gay,
Penned metafilk and fanfilk, even songs of the mundane,
But now at last I think I have gone sane.
I sit there in an audience and wonder what they do,
Performers who can always give us music fresh and new.
It used to be my forte, but now that keep has lost its strength.
In case this isn't clear I'll state at length:
Looks like I'm done writin' filksongs: how could I find it fun?
Those sad, contorted struggles just to cram in one more pun --
Insomnia at 3 am with lyrics in my brain --
You'd think I could refrain from this refrain
Looks like I'm done writin' filksongs: no reason to pretend.
No gripping beast is prodding me to fight until the end.
Don't got no ARGO box of starch or 307 ALE,
There's no hook, no line, no singer, and no sale.
I've learned what is required for a song to prove its worth.
A strong and clear conception will ensure a healthy birth,
But though I've tried to fertilize, to nurture, and to grow,
Just withered weeds sprout from the seeds I sow.
Looks like I'm done writin' filksongs, had my fifteen minutes' fame,
A woman on the zaftig side is warbling my name.
You'd better bring the house lights up and drop the curtain fast,
I've lost my union card and left the cast.
Looks like I'm done writin' filksongs, this cat has got to scoot
just run me down the flagpole cause there's nothing to salute,
I'm shufflin' off to Buffalo, it's midnight at the ball,
It's time to close the iris, folks, that's all!
Oh, yes, I'm done writin' filksongs, the moth has met the flame,
Ol' Kane has whispered "Rosebud", and the ump just called the game,
"That's all she wrote," is all I said; It's last call at the bar,
As far I can can go's about this far.
I said I'm done writin' filksongs, I'm taking one last bow
I know I said that last time, but I really mean it now.
I've had my cake and eaten it; farewell, my faithful fen...
Aw, shoot, I wrote another one, again.