Pin my hat on a nice piece of property.
Friday nights, for a bit of fun, we'll go dancing.
Meanwhile...
It's a wink and a wiggle and a giggle in the grass
And I'll trip the light fandango,
A pinch and a diddle in the middle of what passes by.
It's a very short road from the pinch and the punch
To the paunch and the pouch and the pension.
It's a very short road to the ten thousandth lunch
And the belch and the grouch and the sigh.
In the meanwhile,
There are mouths to be kissed before mouths to be fed
And a lot in between in the meanwhile.
And a girl ought to celebrate what passes by.
Or I shall marry the businessman
Five fat babies and lots of security.
Friday nights, if we think we can,
We'll go dancing.
Meanwhile...
It's a push and a fumble and a tumble in the sheets
And I'll foot the highland fancy,
A dip in the butter and a flutter with what meets my eye.
It's a very short fetch from the push and the whoop
To the squint and the stoop and the mumble.
It's not much of a stretch to the cribs and the croup
And the bosoms that droop And go dry.
In the meanwhile,
There are mouths to be kissed before mouths to be fed,
And there's many a tryst and there's many a bed
To be sampled and seen in the meanwhile.
And a girl has to celebrate what passes by.
Or I shall marry the Prince of Wales,
Pearls and servants and dressing for festivals.
Friday nights, with him all in tails,
We'll have dancing.
Meanwhile...
It's a rip in the bustle and a rustle in the hay
And I'll pitch the quick fantastic,
With flings of confetti and my petticoats away up high.
It's a very short way from the fling that's for fun
To the thigh pressing under the table.
It's a very short day til you're stuck with just one
Or it has to be done on the sly.
In the meanwhile,
There are mouths to be kissed before mouths to be fed,
And there's many a tryst and there's many a bed,
There's a lot I'll have missed but I'll not have been dead when I die!
And a person should celebrate everything passing by.
And I shall marry the miller's son.
Despite my references to Candide, which might mislead you, the Jesuits (who, despite my choice of link, are not in Britain alone) didn't get their hands on me during my formative years. At different distances, one of which became in-person contact (and no, I'm not telling which), Sondheim, Seuss, Keats (for whom I was far too young), Shelley & Co. (and yes, I know Keats to have been amongst them), Gorey, Addams and Thurber did. They didn't get their hands on me, but they got their words and music and images in me, and those seethed into and rewrote my DNA.
The same thing happened at later stages, with different artists, of course. (Shall we discuss visuals and Andy Goldsworthy, who is worth far more than gold? For a moving visual, look here.)
People get bickery about show music and I'm sure to cause the turning up of no few noses, citing a lyricist as a poet (There's worse to come, darlings. The bonnie blog is young, but a-growin'.), but Sondheim is far more than a hack lyricist -- and well-crafted songs are poems with more layers, nothing less or more.
Sondheim's words and music do much for me, even after the hundredth hearing. The day Pacific Overtures touches nothing in me, I shall no longer be me.
Call 'The Miller's Son' (sung by Petra in A Little Night Music) a pivotal influence. If you haven't heard it, then you can sample what you're missing here. I'll wait until you're back.) (Do you need a breather?)
'The Miller's Son' is primal and passionate, a full-blooded and throated vocalised urge, a rowdy behest for the living of life -- not a prayer for for mercy, but for full-on, 'Don't just embrace it; take it home and have its children' life. It puts down its glass, leans forward over its comfortably wide-spread legs (bugger conformity) and says, 'Jaayyysus, ya daft fool. Go do it.' Had Petra been Penelope, Ulysses would have had a shorter journey. That Petrafied Penelope wouldn't have waited at home. She'd have gone out there and brought back her man, leaving some sore and bewildered Sirens and other problems in the back-end of her path.
Shifting mythologies and legends and lores for a moment, the miller's son is no bad bargain. Puss in Boots worked with him.
Returning to Petra: She's a pragmatist. Babies make messes. Princes move in other strata (although they, too, come to beds at night). The road is short but this girl isn't going to creep or crawl (although she certainly plans to fumble). She's going to kick up her well-rounded heels and dance her way to the far end, however near or far it may be. And the gods have not invented that good night into which this girl is going to go gently. She's going to go out of life just the way she came into it and precisely the way she lived it while she was here: every pore open, each sense ready and every bit alive right up to the instant after the last exhalation. And I have no idea who's going to help anybody who gets in her way on this or any other side. Any song that gets that vitality pulsing through a hearer is doing a service for far longer than the timespan of a poem, with or without a score.
The same thing happened at later stages, with different artists, of course. (Shall we discuss visuals and Andy Goldsworthy, who is worth far more than gold? For a moving visual, look here.)
People get bickery about show music and I'm sure to cause the turning up of no few noses, citing a lyricist as a poet (There's worse to come, darlings. The bonnie blog is young, but a-growin'.), but Sondheim is far more than a hack lyricist -- and well-crafted songs are poems with more layers, nothing less or more.
Sondheim's words and music do much for me, even after the hundredth hearing. The day Pacific Overtures touches nothing in me, I shall no longer be me.
Call 'The Miller's Son' (sung by Petra in A Little Night Music) a pivotal influence. If you haven't heard it, then you can sample what you're missing here. I'll wait until you're back.) (Do you need a breather?)
'The Miller's Son' is primal and passionate, a full-blooded and throated vocalised urge, a rowdy behest for the living of life -- not a prayer for for mercy, but for full-on, 'Don't just embrace it; take it home and have its children' life. It puts down its glass, leans forward over its comfortably wide-spread legs (bugger conformity) and says, 'Jaayyysus, ya daft fool. Go do it.' Had Petra been Penelope, Ulysses would have had a shorter journey. That Petrafied Penelope wouldn't have waited at home. She'd have gone out there and brought back her man, leaving some sore and bewildered Sirens and other problems in the back-end of her path.
Shifting mythologies and legends and lores for a moment, the miller's son is no bad bargain. Puss in Boots worked with him.
Returning to Petra: She's a pragmatist. Babies make messes. Princes move in other strata (although they, too, come to beds at night). The road is short but this girl isn't going to creep or crawl (although she certainly plans to fumble). She's going to kick up her well-rounded heels and dance her way to the far end, however near or far it may be. And the gods have not invented that good night into which this girl is going to go gently. She's going to go out of life just the way she came into it and precisely the way she lived it while she was here: every pore open, each sense ready and every bit alive right up to the instant after the last exhalation. And I have no idea who's going to help anybody who gets in her way on this or any other side. Any song that gets that vitality pulsing through a hearer is doing a service for far longer than the timespan of a poem, with or without a score.
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