textfiles/music/sobersng.txt

           WHY THE HELL AM I SOBER?
                  By Lucillus
     (Sung to the tune of "Wild Rover")
             Dedicated to Jester

                  CHORUS
          And it's no, nay never!
          No, nay never, no more,
          Why the hell am I sober?   
           No, never, no more!        
                                    

I've been an old Roman for many a year,
And I've come now to tell you just why I am here:
At last I've decided that Caesar's a bore,
And I never will follow a bald man anymore.

I sing at this fire just to show everyone
That a night without drinking can be just as fun.
But who can I fool with that transparent lie?
Just pass me that mug, and I'll drain it dry!

First drink to the Warlord of old Anglesea,
If he weren't so cool, he'd be just like me.
So let's toast to Hendrick, the brave and the bold,
And may never again his buttocks grow cold.

Let's drink now to Moordock, that merry old Celt,
And his paunch that keeps creeping right over his belt.
But then next to Hendrick, he still looks so slim,
I guess now we know why he hangs out with him.

Not that we all have too much room to spout
As we all let one more belt notch slip on out.
Once we were young, and so slender and strong
Now we have the swordbrothers to help us along.

To Thorak the Fiend let us now drink a beer
Of all the old kinsmen, he's who I most fear.
How do you think that he came by that name?    
Some hot wax on poor Hendrick gave him lasting fame!     

To Lir my good friend, a most generous man,
The last thing I want is from your tent to be banned.
Your wisdom and elegance show to us all
Just how far an Anglesea kinsman can fall.


Why the Hell Am I sober?
Page 2

Now for the hair farmer, Helgun my son
I only do wish that I'd much faster run
But your mother she caught me and then had her way
A mistake you see before you this day.

Let's tease poor old Finn now, a-doze by the fire,
Don't you think that it's time for him to retire?           
But despite his great life span, he still gets around
I hear that an old Roman walker he's found.

Now here's for Sir Owen, that would-be great wit,
It's my fervent prayer that songwriting he'll quit.
He tries much too hard his lyrics to write,
But he never does seem to get them quite right.

To Ragnar the squeaky this verse I do bring
In the hopes that no more of his songs he will sing.
It's not that he doesn't amuse us, oh no!
But to laugh at the singer is a mighty low blow.

To Balthazar I sing now his very own verse
Though I'm sure he hoped he'd escape from this curse.
There's one thing I'd like to ask in this song:
Have you ever, O Balthazar, ever been wrong?

Now let's drink to Mordechai, ever-so-foul,
The master of making so many sheep howl!
With wardrobe as stunning as his insightful wit
But we all know the truth, that he's full of (doo-doo)shit!
                                          
And Tristan, O Tristan, I could never ignore
Despite all the times that I tried to before.
But it's still good to see him come out once again
It reminds all of us how calm things have been.

Let's sing now to Balinor, far from us all
But he heard the war summons, and answered the call
As much as we've tried to get rid of this pest
He keeps coming back, but he knows that I jest.

To quote a good friend at his insightful best:
Please don't take offense at my bad rhyming jests.
And all of you people that I dare offend
Are the ones that I hope to still call my friends.

Why the hell am I sober?
Page 3

Now I've finished with kinsmen, so let's start anew
I'd insult all swordbrothers, but there are too few.
Who next to abuse in this much too long song,
If you guessed who right now, you'd most likely be wrong.

To Badger the cheerful, let's all drink a toast
I'm never depressed, let that be his boast
He's always unselfish, and modest as hell
But who am I fooling, we know him too well.

To Karuk and Arundor, swordbrothers keen,
But they scare off the Tuchuks, they both look so mean. 
How come all the flankers get most of the fun?
Sometimes I sure wish that they'd leave me just one!

Let's drink now to Jester, for this is his song,
Though God knows already it's gone on too long.
His songwriting talents are second to none,
But my songs are better, 'cause they're much more fun!

Although I'm in awe of the music he writes,
They sound like the singer should be wearing tights.
Most funeral dirges are merrier tunes,
But we're hoping he cheers up again pretty soon.

For Arabus drink now, that brave Viking sot,
We all know that he is a great warrior, NOT!
A pussycat hiding beneath a wolf's pelt,
With a charm that makes belly-dancers all melt.

And now here's to Magnus, the meek and the mild,
With the innocence of a very small child.               
He's gruff and quite noisy, but never unkind,
And a more subtle man would be quite hard to find.

Won't you join me and drink now to my good friend Bain, 
Though living with him could drive me insane.
He's always been generous, kind and polite,
And by the way, be careful, it's true that he bites.

For Anglesea here at this Pennsic I sing
And I'm happy this song to our fire I could bring.
I hope that you like it, but don't ask for more
Any more verses, and we'd all miss the war!       












******************************************************************************
Since Moordock and Hendrick are not to be found
Let's sing more about them while they're not around.
To those grand old men who do run Anglesea,
()

I could write all the Shindar a verse to each one 
If ()


Now won't you join me as the Tuchuks we toast, 
Of all of our foes, we respect them the most.
Although their war cries sound like ()                      
But at least they don't whine when their betters prevail.

When next time we meet them, we won't be so slack,
Just give us the same numbers, and then we'll attack.
Their fearsome reputation might suffer a blow
()

Now in this verse I'll name noone, I'll just let you guess
For there's one type I hate most of all, I confess.
(Those twits who write verses to tell us they're great)
                                

So heed now my warning, you swell-headed (clowns)
()