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Words and music copyright ©2001 by Blake Hodgetts
It started out quite innocently, if I do recall
Some filkers sang some tunes that weren't really ose at all
A song about a spaceman's death, a lover's mournful keen
But then somebody decided they'd define what 'ose' should mean
And it's ose, ose, ose, ose,
O so very ose
This filk's begun to wax exceeding ose.
The filker chose Cthulhu as the subject for his ode
As a topic for a cheery ditty, well this didn't bode
After thirty-seven verses full of muck and grim decay
More than half the circle looked as if they rued their natal day
The gauntlet had been duly cast, a challenge to be met,
The next bold filker took it up and firm her jaw was set.
She filked about the aftermath of post-atomic war,
and laced her lyrics lib'rally with pus and ooze and gore
The Schwartzschild Radius beckoned as the filk approached its bourne:
That density of oseness from which there is no return.
The next up faced this threat head-on and never even blinked,
With a song of every species that had ever gone extinct.
The osity was crushing and the filkersí spirits fell
Not even "Banned from Argo" could disrupt the fatal spell
A rollicking Kanefsky spoof was raised to save the day
but before they reached the chorus it had dribbled clean away
At last it was more ose than spatial fabric could afford
The room was dimming visibly with every minor chord
Then suddenly the filk collapsed and everyone was gone,
All lost except for Ken who had got up to use the john
(spoken, by Ken, if present: "Was it something I said?"*)
The morals of this story: you should never press your luck:
You might reach singularity, and that would really suck;
Be sure to check the oseness ere more oseness you accrue,
And last but least, don't hesitate to linger in the loo.
[*or, knowing Ken, something unexpectedly different.]