by Marc Gunn, Fall 1987

I wrote this in the 10th grade for a class project while studying Shakespeare's play Julius Caesar. It comes from the voice of Mark Anthony after he finds Julius Caesar recently killed and in a salad.

O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of poultry,
That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!
Thou art the ruins of the noblest hen
That ever laid eggs in the tide of times.
Woe to the hand that plucked thy costly feathers!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,--
Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby beaks,
To beg the voice and clucking of my tongue--
A curse shall light upon the wings of hens;
Domestic fury and fierce civil strife
Shall cumber all the parts of the barnyard;
Blood and destruction shall be so in use
And dreadful objects so familiar
That mother hens shall but smile when they behold
Their chicks quarter'd with the hands of war;
All pity choked with custom of fowl deeds:
And Foghorn Leghorn's spirit, ranging for revenge,
With Farmer by his side come hot from coop,
Shall in these confines with a rooster's voice
Cry 'Cockle Doodle Do,' and let slip the dogs of war;
That this fowl deed shall smell above the earth
With carrion hens, crowing for burial.

by Marc Gunn, August 22, 2004

It is still possible to find peace of mind even when you breakup with someone you can care for greatly as shown by this brief poem of reflection.

Sadness is my inspiration.
Shame is my quill.
Guilt is my parchment.
Remorse is the ink I spilled.
But love is the sand
That soaks up my remorse
And allows me to feel.

words by Marc Gunn; music Third Eye Blind

A parody of "How's It Gonna Be" by Third Eye Blind. This song is a howling tribute to Buffy, the Vampire Slayer and her once true vampiric love, Angel.

Incidentally, this song was written before Angel was killed, and before he got his own TV series! I thought it would be the perfect parody since How's It Gonna Be includes an autoharp in their recording, and, of course, I play autoharp! I posted chords for Angel's Lament on the Brobdingnagian Bards website. It was recorded on Brobdingnagian Fairy Tales.

I'm really unsure...if I'm a vampire
Before I take a drink...I wonder should I be biting her
When you kill my friends out in the pale moon light
I wonder, am I a creature of the night

How'm I gonna eat, when the sun rises this morning
How'm I gonna eat, when your blood's sucked dry
How'm I gonna eat, when my teeth grow long and pointy
Are rats all I'll need when I'm hungary, how'm I gonna eat.

Where you used to stab all the vampires backs
...They'd disappear into ash
A fetish that I can't ignore
...Like wood stakes in your dresser drawers.
And the hours that you spend working out and kick boxing
Make me wish that...we were necking

How'm I gonna eat, when Buffy no longer loves me
How'm I gonna eat, when the writers kill me
How'm I gonna eat, when the Goth scene's too depressing
Will I be like Mr. T, in a spinoff series, how'm I gonna eat.

pch
How'm I gonna eat when Buffy's ratings finally fall
How'm I gonna eat...

mid
Gonna get my own TV show
They'll call it "Angel" named after me you know
I gonna taste leading role success
So they won't just think of me
...as the living dead, living dead

How'm I gonna eat, when they typecast me
How'm I gonna eat
How'm I gonna eat

by Marc Gunn, August 22, 2004

Breaking up is difficult. But learning to forgive one's self is even more difficult, and it's never easy to break the cycle, heal, and move on.

Bathing in self-induced depression.
Longing for natural love.
Wondering if I gave it up.
Hoping I'll soon recover.
Praying I will heal quickly.
Searching for the means.
Hiding from my reasons.
Reasoning myself betrayed.
Hurting to find forgiveness.
Forgiving so I may learn to love.
To escape a poor pattern, and
Live for another day.

by Pam Owens, June 7, 2004

I started playing with this in my head after I sent you the joking list of songs last night for your new "Irish Drinking Songs for Cat Lovers" album! I know it's pretty strange! Comes from 27 years of being an alcohol and drug counselor.

Now I have a little kitten and his name is kitty cat
Make no mistake, he's the cat I'd like to whack
That naughty little kitty he's been tearing up me sack
And I'm hearing that he's throwing up a furball

Kitty cat's downed me sack
Eaten all my snacks and
Kitty cat's got the knack
for getting in me pack and
Kitty cat's going back
He's playing on me wine rack
And I'm thinking that he's nipping at the corks now.

Now that little kitty is too young to be a drinker
He's drinking my rose' and his tongue's a little pinker
Now he's got me ale, that dirty rotten stinker
And he's lapping all the liquor in the house now.

Kitty cat's drinking sack, sneaking all the whiskey
Kitty cat's falling back, looks a little tipsy
Kitty cat's dancing round, licking off his whiskers
And I think the kitty better go to AA.

Now he's stepped it up, and he's into all my drugs,
He's a thieving little kitty and he looks just like a thug,
Who'd a thought a pretty kitty could be pulling such a lug
And I don't know if he's using it or selling.

Kitty cat's cooking crack
Looking like a junkie
Kitty cat's shooting smack
Isn't he a punkie
Kitty cat's off his whack
Feeling not so spunky
And I'm thinking that he'll have to go to rehab.

Black Is the Color (of My Cat's Fur)
by Marc Gunn, Bard 6/30/2004

A Celtic love ballad based on the Celtic folk song "Black Is the Color" for my "Irish Drinking Songs for Cat Lovers" CD... or is it? One thing I love about this project is following the theme of the songs I'm parodying. This, like the original, turns from a simple love ballad into a lament for the lost. And in this case, it's the poor cats lost to legislation that allows states like Texas to kill cats in over-populated regions.

Black is the color of my cat's fur.
Her whiskers are like the finest myrrh
She has the kindest eyes and the gentlest paws
I love the ground whereon they fall.

I love my cat, and well, she knows.
I love the nails, I clip from her toes
At the end of the day, I come home to her
Craddled in my arms, I massage her neck. She purrs.

Black is the color of my cat's fur.
Her whiskers are like the finest myrrh
She has kindest eyes and the gentlest paws
I love the ground whereon they fall.

I'll go to the pound, and I'll mourn and weep.
Till the stray kill laws, they no more will keep.
(I'll) Write Congress this letter beg them to spare cat lives.
I'll ask you to share this songs a thousand times.

Black is the color of my cat's fur.
Her whiskers are like the finest myrrh
She has kindest eyes and the gentlest paws
I love the ground whereon they fall.

by Marc Gunn, Bard 8/5/2004

This parody of "Lord of the Dance" was inspired by my friend, Pam Owens, known as Mother Pockets. I thought her idea of "Lord of the Pounce" was easy to parody for my "Irish Drinking Songs for Cat Lovers" CD. And it was. But as I was studying the different lyrics, I realized there was a great "circle of life" story that could be told.

Domesticated cats have been a part of our human culture for centuries. So I decided to make this song tell the story of cats as a part of the human experience, but with heavenly beginnings that will never end.

I pounced in the morning when the world was begun.
I pounced on the moon and the stars all for fun.
I leaped down from heaven, and I pounced on the earth.
When I pounced my first mouse, I had my birth.

Pounce, pounce, wherever you may be
I am lord of the pounce, said he.
I'll run under feet, wherever you may be.
And I'll leap on you in the pounce, said he.

I pounced on the papyrus of the Egyptians
They wouldn't play so I stole their feather pens
I pounced on the fish caught by James and John
They fed me fish then the pounce went on.

I pounced on the Sabbath, rubbed my head against the lame.
Many people shook their head, said this feline was insane.
I may nap after pouncing, do not think I am gone.
For I just saw a rat, so the pounce goes on.

I and my lady meowed a song across the plain
The birds came down, and we pounced on each of them.
On the bedchamber floor, I laid my carrion.
Then I raced out the door and I pounced again.

I dog jumped down, so I leapt up high.
I have nine lives that will never, never die.
I'll pounce on you though you bark at me
I am the Lord of the Pounce, said he.

by Marc Gunn, Bard 8/5/2004

Bob Dylan wrote his own version of "Patriot Game" back in the 60s in response to the Vietnam War. You can't blame him, because "Patriot Game" is just a great tune. So it was a must to parody for my "Irish Drinking Songs for Cat Lovers" CD. This story tells of the dominion of the cats in my household.

Come all ye young fellows and listen while I sing
For the love of a kitty cat is terrible thing.
He'll banish your senses. You'll be prisoner to his pain.
And he'll make you a part of the demented cat game.

My name it is Marc Gunn, and I'm nearly thirty-three.
My home is in Austin, where two cats live with me.
Well I've known all my life that all cats are insane
Yet I still fell in love with the demented cat game.

These two cats of mine have terrorized me.
My home is too small for their cat tyranny.
But still Tiziano is greatly to blame
He meows and I melt in the demented cat game.

I came in and saw Torre stretched out on his chair.
His sleepy eyes saw me smile at his stare.
His fine body stretched, then his tongue licked his mane.
Contorting his neck in the demented cat game.

It's nearly two years since these two cats moved in.
The sofa's now covered with the scent of cat chin.
Well I read about felines, and never wanted the same.
Until I became part of the demented cat game.

I lie in my bed and on me my cats lie
I see Torre legs bend he's ready to fly.
He jumps on my tummy. I give thanks for the pain.
And the explosive nature of the demented cat game.