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    FFFFF  I   L       K    K   fffff  i   l       eeeee
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—————————————————————- 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.



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

copyright Charlie Kellner, 1990


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!"


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."


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!) 1) 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!


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!) 2) 3))…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.


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 re- vived 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 


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!

(with a nod and a smile to Edgar Allan Poe) copyright Charlie Kellner, 1990


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

copyright Charlie Kellner, 1990


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

copyright Charlie Kellner, June 6 1990


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)

words copyright Charlie Kellner, Oct 1981


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!

Verse copyright Kay Shapero, 1987 Choruses copyright Lee Gold, 1987

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.

——end of file———- 

do that again if you really want TA!
take it from here if ya want any maw!
(Oh, wellll
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